


Pack Law

by KivaTaliana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Animal Behaviour, Not exactly incest but verges on it, Other, The Where This Is Going Is Getting There, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 78,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivaTaliana/pseuds/KivaTaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a newly bitten werewolf and is just getting used to that idea when he finds out he is the only bitten alpha male to exist.  Sherlock and Mycroft then proceed, in their own special ways, to make the situation complicated, interesting and dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting Lestrade

His first instinct on opening the laptop was to hurl it at the wall. 

But he knew that was stupid. 

So instead he logged out from the blog and just used the word processor. 

John had finally found something to write in his blog, although he didn't want to tell the world. 

Anger fuelled it, and he had to do something. There was no one to vent at, except Harry and he didn't want to talk to her, not after this, not after he found out....

'That's how it happens. They don't talk to the forewarned wolves, they go through the families, there has to be hospital records and it's for the best. Harry believed that. Harry put me on this register thing, the one thing I didn't really want. There is some official line that it's for the newly introduced werewolves to know each other, which is a lie. It's simply like having a microchip, like a dog. 

Hard to ignore I suppose, it's on my record, why the army sent me home. That was discreet though, say I've been shot, who questions that?' 

John paused writing, breath hitching slightly. He had thought the man injured, almost dead, he had intended to help him and in a split second he had been facing fangs and fur. The beast had dived at his leg and John moved back, trying to use his gun. He had fired, he was sure of that, but then... he must have missed. By instinct he had turned away and then the searing pain on his shoulder had ignited every nerve in his body, and it hadn't stopped as he landed face first on the ground. He heard shouting, but it was nothing coherent. There had just been a red and black haze, until days later when the fever had faded.

John took a breath and carried on typing. 

'I suppose Harry didn't know. She said she was doing what she thought was best. I'd rather she thought about what was best for herself rather than worrying about me. Can't say that to her though, what with... things... as they are for her. Not that she's not responsible for some of it, or all of it maybe. 

Now I'm stuck that every time I do something, or apply for anything, that damn thing will flag up. I won't be able to get a job, I won't be able to get a flat - certainly not in London - on an army pension. 

God knows what I do now... there could be worse to come' 

John paused and sat back, wondering what to do now. He had no intention of posting that online, not wanting to add to the outing of his condition. Reaching up he rubbed his shoulder, where the bite had occurred, deep into the flesh, putting the infection into his system. He looked around the rather dingy bedsit he was in now. For the time being he guessed he was staying there.

It took him a moment to notice the sound; he had drifted so deep into his brooding thoughts. As it happened again, with greater urgency he realised someone was knocking on the door. And after a pause it happened again, and a moment later his phone rang. John looked at it, not knowing the number on the screen. No one called him anyway. Only Harry, or people wanting Harry since it was her phone to begin with. 

John picked it up. 

"Hello?" 

"Is that Dr John Watson?" 

John frowned. "Yeah?" he made the word a question. 

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, I have just tried your... accommodation. I need your help with something." 

"Oh," John said carefully. He opened the drawer at the desk and slowly pulled out the gun he stored in there. It was loaded and ready, he knew the dangers, especially in London. He had smelt them on occasion, now his senses were heightening, traces of wolf, some stronger than others, some deeply laid into an area, as if the space had been claimed. Occasionally he had laid eyes on them, glancing round, as they had done, sensing him. What he was made them wary, sometimes curious. He had needed to use the gun before now. 

"Why?" John asked. 

In the background John could hear the sounds of the man walking, presumably down the corridor. Shifting slowly John reached out his other hand to grab his cane struggling for a moment to hoist himself up. He couldn't manage for a moment and after an irritated growl he spoke into the phone again. 

"Hang on." 

John dumped the phone down and levered himself up, hobbling to the door. He used his cane, and kept the gun in his other hand. Reaching the door he flung it open and raised the weapon. The man in the corridor paused as John stepped out, and he backed up as he saw the gun, raising his hands. He looked vaguely familiar to John, but he couldn't entirely work out why. One thing he did realise as he took a breath was the scent. A light trace of wolf lingered in the doorway, where he had stood and as John moved forward he caught it in the corridor. The person who had come to him was a wolf, and he paused slightly, letting John work that out before he said, quite tentatively. 

"Dr Watson?" 

"Why do you want to know?" 

"I'm sorry to bother you, especially so late," Oddly polite, John thought. Beta wolf, his senses told him. "But I need your help."

"In what way?" 

"Medical but delicate."

That didn't tell John much, but the wolf scent and tentative approach put it in a ball park. 

"I don't really want to give too much detail now. I found your name on the register, God help you, but I need a doctor." 

John debated that for a moment. The man looked slightly worried and John felt a little intrigued; also suspicious.

"I didn't know the police used the register." 

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "Not usually and this isn't police business, I just thought that might help. I just have a friend, who needs a doctor, and discretion is sort of preferred." 

It seemed a reasonable explanation. 

"I'll go down and wait in the car. If you're not down in ten minutes, I'll understand, but I want your help, nothing else." 

John nodded. The man was as good as his word. He backed up and then turned and walked away heading down the left corridor to the lift. John even heard it ping politely and he still waited, slowly backing up. He turned and limped swiftly back into the room. He snatched up his coat and fumbled to grab his keys, and the phone, glancing at it he realised he was still on the line to the person he had just spoken to. 

"Wait for me," he said into the phone unsure if his visitor heard, then shutting the phone down he stuffed it into his pocket along with everything else and shrugged his coat on. 

Getting down the lift and out the door probably didn't take ten minutes. Lestrade waited by his car, and John watched as a traffic warden moved towards him, seeing as it wasn't well parked. Lestrade flashed his badge, said something and moved the warden on without any issue. Either the ID was very good or it was real. John limped forward and opened the door, as the man turned his attention him Lestrade looked little short of relieved. 

"I wasn't sure you'd come." 

"Neither was I," John said. "Where are we going?" 

"If you want to tell someone the location it is 221b Baker Street." 

John raised his eyebrows. "You could be lying." 

"You can walk away any time." 

John pondered and then limped across the paved area towards the car. Getting the hint Lestrade moved to the driver's door. John paused with his hand on the passenger door handle. 

"The police don't use the register, do they?" 

Lestrade paused and shrugged. "No. The damn thing seemed like a good idea, it hasn't worked out that way. Experienced wolves usually don't touch it with a barge pole; I was desperate." 

John smirked. "Thanks." And with that, he opened the door and got in. So did Lestrade, who glanced over at him. "I was also lucky, finding you on there. Not that I entirely believed the listing but..." He paused, leaning over slightly to sniff the air. "No doubting it." 

"That I'm an alpha?" 

Lestrade nodded. "More that you are a doctor, but the alpha makes it interesting." 

"What sort of trouble is this friend in then?" John asked. "Or what is his condition?" 

"Complicated. And as an alpha you might have better luck dealing with him," Lestrade said. "Or at least he might be so distracted by you he won't notice what you're doing." 

John raised his eyebrows. "I'm that interesting, am I?" 

"Bitten wolves rarely manifest as alphas," Lestrade said. John raised his eyebrows at the blue flashes as Lestrade turned the engine on and then flipped the lights. 

"One of the wolves I met said I was even more unusual than finding a male omega that had been born and bred," John said. 

His companion glanced over at him, looking lightly amused, before he put the siren on and his foot down. 

"Funny you should say that."


	2. Meeting Sherlock

Although the comment intrigued John, Lestrade, or Greg as he introduced himself during the drive, didn't elaborate further. John wondered if it was obvious or if he was meant to work it out for himself. The conversation did establish that Greg had been bitten in the line of duty and retained his job because his team had backed him up under the threat of his dismissal. 

He also hinted there was another reason but again did not elaborate, as if that would reveal itself to John in time. It made the doctor wonder what he might have got himself into. During one of his therapy sessions he had learnt about pack behaviour. The groups didn't officially exist but wolves reacted to that mentality, drawing together. Greg presumably could be part of such a thing. John didn't probe further, although his curiosity was roused. 

It moved to greater heights when they reached their location. The scent hit John as he entered the flat. Musky, but sweet. He recognised it as omega, very strong, and then raised his eyebrows as he slowly connected the dots in his mind. He followed Lestrade up the stairs and looked around in interest. 

"Oh, there you are," a fresh voice said. John turned to look at the woman who appeared, he didn't even need the scent to know she was not the omega in residence, she was human. 

"I came as quickly as I could. This is Dr Watson. John this is Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's landlady." 

John smiled and gave a vague wave. 

"How is he?" Lestrade asked. Mrs Hudson sighed and tilted her head slightly. 

"I'm not sure, he won't allow me to go in the bathroom. Although, since he's still shouting every time I talk to him I can only presume that he's doing all right." 

"I'll try," Lestrade said. John followed him to a door and watched as the detective rapped on it. 

"I'm fine Mrs Hudson!" 

John raised his eyebrows at the low, angry tone of voice, and also the smell that accompanied it. That explained Lestrade's slightly cynical comment. A male omega, the scent so strong it had to be a born omega. 

"She might listen to you but I know you're not. I've got you a doctor." 

"And what do they know!" 

John eased forward and eyed the door handle. It didn't look that reliable, even without the additional strength the bite had given him. Reaching out he turned it and leant to put pressure on the door, stumbling as it opened without complaint. His shoulder hit the door and it crashed open, slamming against the wall. He managed to right himself by grabbing the doorframe. From inside the room, perched on the side of the bath, the man eyed him with amusement and irritation. 

"I didn't lock it."

"Clearly," John snapped back, standing straighter. He looked the man up and down wincing at the vicious bite wounds that marred his arms, the scratches - which were almost gouges - on his chest and blood also ran down his neck.

"If you wouldn't mind closing it on your way out," he ordered John rudely. John didn't move, he couldn't without stepping on Lestrade, who lingered directly behind him. 

"Sherlock you need a doctor to check those wounds." 

John thought some of them needed stitches, he didn't have any equipment with him.

"He'd be best going to hospital," John said. 

"Don't be ridiculous. What sort of an idiot are you!" 

"Sherlock," Lestrade admonished. Sherlock only rolled his eyes. 

"Those need stitches," John said, voicing his opinion out loud. "I don't have anything to do that." 

"He's bound to have something," Lestrade said. "Where is it Sherlock?" 

The omega huffed. "I am fine, I heal quickly anyway." 

"Not for a few days," Lestrade told him. 

"And do you plan to sit here and bleed for that length of time?" John asked sarcastically. Sherlock looked up and glared at him again. "Where is your first aid kit?" 

As John snapped out the question Sherlock inhaled sharply, glaring at him. John glared back, he wasn't particularly pleased to be dragged out at 2am, but he had been willing to do so, his innate nature one that drew him to help. But he was starting to wonder why he should help this idiot. 

"The kit is under the sink, there should be everything you need in there." 

John sighed. "Because that's a logical place to keep a medical kit." 

He turned to go searching for the kitchen. Mrs Hudson had been making tea, John found her staring into the fridge. 

"Oh dear," she said, either to herself, or to the fridge. 

"Are you all right?" 

She turned and shut the fridge, looking startled as she turned round to look at John. "He really shouldn't keep things like that in there." 

John blinked, wondering what she was talking about. She almost stepped back towards the kettle and then realised she had forgotten something. Turning back she opened the fridge again and John's eyes widened as he saw the dismembered hand. Mrs Hudson took the milk out of the fridge door and shut it again. John took a breath and looked around.

"Under the sink," he mumbled to himself opening the cupboard and peering in. Sure enough the first aid kit, propped against the u-bend, sat there. John grabbed it and went back into the bathroom. Sherlock still perched in position and Lestrade leant back against the door frame. Both of them paused their conversation as John walked back. Lestrade moved to allow him through the doorway. Sherlock just watched him with interest. 

John said nothing to either of them. He lowered the toilet seat to put the kit down and he opened it up, sifting through the contents before he turned to Sherlock, who still dripped with blood. 

"Right," John said calmly trying not to breathe too deeply. "Let's take a look." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Sherlock was not the easiest of patients. John opted to ignore the comments about his medical skills as he carefully started to sew up one of the gouges on Sherlock's chest. 

"How the hell did you get these?" 

"A little encounter." 

"Little?" John muttered almost to himself. "I'd hate to see big. Another wolf did this?" 

"Two," Sherlock said calmly. John looked up startled. 

"I thought omegas had... bodyguards or..." 

Sherlock snorted and his eyes narrowed and he leant forward, inhaling again. 

"Not exactly," Lestrade said. "Most omegas do have alphas that attend them, but for the most part pure-bred omegas can handle themselves, and usually deal with most other wolves. Instinct drives it, the alphas and betas can usually be calmed by the scent. It gives the omega control of the situation most of the time." 

"Most of the time?" John said, finishing stitching one wound before he moved onto another. 

"Sherlock has difficulty with that." 

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. John paused to glance up at the officer. 

"As his scents clash, it does rather antagonise, and Sherlock's disposition hardly helps." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Disposition? And I don't need help." 

"Those needed a doctor, if I couldn't find anyone myself I would have had to call Mycroft. I might just do that anyway," Lestrade threatened. Sherlock didn't look as if he took that very seriously. 

"And what will he do?" 

"He is your guardian alpha." 

"I don't need a guardian. I need to be left in peace." 

John didn't comment as the argument raged back and forth. He finished stitching and moved on to cleaning and binding the bite wounds. 

"Stop doing that!" Sherlock snapped at him. John jumped and looked up, he had crouched on the floor for convenience to bind the wounds. He met Sherlock's rather stormy eyes. 

"What?" 

"Scenting. Your breathing is deepening." 

"I'm trying to concentrate," John said. He felt a little confused by the comment but had to admit every time he took a breath Sherlock's scent seemed to cause some reaction, along with the smell of the blood; although he hadn't realised he was giving any reaction away. He finished wrapping up the tail end of the last bandage under Sherlock's intense gaze before sitting back and slowly getting to his feet, carefully manoeuvring his bad leg and gripping the sink to pull himself up. 

Sherlock viewed the work, standing to look at the stitching on his chest in the mirror. 

"Adequate I suppose." 

Lestrade looked apologetic as John rolled his eyes. All three of them jumped as a phone started to ring. Sherlock's head whipped round. John fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the phone that Harry had given him. He raised his eyebrows at the screen which announced 'private number'. 

He swiped the screen to answer the call. 

"Hello?" 

"Dr Watson, would you please move away from Mr Holmes a moment?" 

"Excuse me?" 

He had turned away, almost without thinking, so he missed Sherlock's narrowing eyes. 

"Just move away for a moment if you please." 

John didn't please at all. "Who is this?" he demanded. He jumped at the sound of a click. Sherlock held his hand out and he clicked his fingers again, waving his hand. 

"Give me the phone."

"Just move away a moment Dr Watson, I merely wish to talk to you." 

John did take a step back, glancing at Lestrade for help. He did nothing more than shrug and look resigned, as if he expected something like this to happen. 

Sherlock hadn't stepped forward but he had extended his hand further. As he realised he had John's attention again he flicked his hand to indicate he wanted the phone, looking increasingly irritated. After a second John sighed, ignoring the man on the other end of the line so as the phone transferred hands the caller could clearly be heard saying. 

"And please do not give Sherlock the phone!" 

"Mycroft, what do you want?" 

Sherlock listened, looking rather unimpressed. "How I handle situations is none of your concern, and you can leave Lestrade out of it." 

John watched the detective cringe. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. 

"I am perfectly fine. Dr Watson has done a perfectly competent job." 

John raised his eyebrows. In the space of minutes his work had gone from a derogatory adequate to a defensive competent. Sherlock swept past them both stalking into the living area. Mrs Hudson gave a slight yip as she saw Sherlock, now stitched and wrapped up. Sherlock turned and picked up a mug from the tray she was carrying. 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson." After a pause, and a sip he said. "Tea, Mycroft. Now if you don't mind, I've had a busy night and do not wish to waste any time talking to you." 

With that he hung up. John smirked at the outraged yelp that came from the phone before Sherlock did so. He accepted one of the mugs of tea that remained on the tray and watched as Sherlock fiddled with his phone before handing it back. 

"I've blocked all of Mycroft's numbers, although he probably has one or two I don't know about. If he rings you, ignore him, I find it the best way." 

"We may not have that option Sherlock. I'm sorry John," Lestrade said. John frowned. 

“Why? Who is he?” 

“If Sherlock has a bodyguard, then Mycroft is it. He’s also his brother.” 

Sherlock watched the conversation, eyes darting between the pair as if trying to work something out. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he suddenly asked John. 

Surprise caused John to answer. “Afghanistan, how did you…?” 

“You must have been out there some time. I presume you didn’t live in London before then?” 

“Yes, I did. I’ve lived in London all my life,” John said. 

“Then how can you possibly not know…” Sherlock paused, frowned, leant forward to sniff again and then reared back. Out of the corner of his eye John saw Greg smirk. Sherlock clearly saw it as well and he glared at him before looking back to John. 

"You were bitten?" 

"Yes." 

"That's impossible," Sherlock announced sounding rather indignant. John glared at him, knowing that referred to his alpha status. He didn't think Sherlock had any room to talk on the impossible front, which John informed him. Sherlock's eyebrows quirked upwards and he smirked slightly. 

"I'm unusual, not impossible." 

John, despite himself, laughed. "Nope, I think it's fair to say you are completely impossible."


	3. Meeting Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something of a tense affair....

Weighing up the options John had decided it was stupid to fight the request. He didn’t think the alpha chauffeur would be above dragging him into the car. His gun was still tucked into his belt but using that on a busy street didn’t seem like the best plan. 

He had felt curious about the female omega who identified herself as Anthea. She didn’t talk to him; any answers she gave to his questions were monosyllabic. For something to do, John watched the scenery of the streets pass and at the same time breathed in Anthea’s scent, comparing it to Sherlock’s. He had smelt omegas before, ones that were bitten. Anthea’s had a different feel to it. It did make him feel calm, entirely calm about sitting in an unfamiliar car, heading off to meet Sherlock’s mysterious guardian. 

John didn’t feel calm when he met him. 

It seemed a bit dramatic, meeting in a warehouse. As he walked towards him he studied the alpha, neatly dressed in a suit, propping himself up with an umbrella. And as Mycroft smiled sensations of fire ran through John’s system, his adrenaline rising, anger flaring as he walked towards the other man. Mycroft seemed to sense it too, his chin lifting slightly, nostrils flaring. In the end he managed to hold his smile, which didn’t meet his eyes. 

“Ah, Dr Watson, nice to meet you. Please take a seat, rest your leg.” 

“I’m fine standing,” John said through gritted teeth. He was shorter than Mycroft but he had no intention of increasing that distance, allowing the other alpha to look further down on him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anthea move and got a hint as to what she was doing there. With him, Mycroft and the chauffeur she had three alpha males around her. It was why she had sat in the back of the car with John, to calm him in close proximity to the other alpha. It was probably why Mycroft chose the warehouse to meet in. They had room to manoeuvre during a tense first meeting. John stopped several steps away from Mycroft and glared at him. 

“You could have just phoned me, since you have my number.” 

“I presumed that Sherlock blocked all of mine,” Mycroft said. 

“You could have borrowed someone else’s surely,” he glanced at Anthea who looked up from her phone and smiled again. 

“There are times, in dealing with Sherlock, when more… indirect… methods are needed.” 

“You weren’t indirect last night.” 

Mycroft looked irritated. “There was very little choice last night, I wished to be appraised of my brother’s condition.”

“You could have phoned Greg, or just gone round.” 

Mycroft frowned, but didn’t comment on that. “I suppose I must thank you for dealing with Sherlock.” 

John blinked, shaking his head slightly. "That's fine. He needed treating but nothing was too serious." 

Mycroft looked unconvinced. “If that was the case why did Detective Inspector Lestrade call you?” 

“Probably because he didn’t know that, he’s a police officer, not a doctor.” 

“He’s also spent the last three years bitten. He knows our limits. And using the register…” Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“Well, I didn’t plan to go on that.” 

“You are not. Your name never made it to the official record; I intercepted it.” 

John frowned. “Then how did Lestrade find me?” 

“What I allow our police friend to see is entirely different to what is a matter of public record and the last thing I want is you on that, certainly now that Sherlock will take an interest in you.” 

John shrugged. “Why would he?” 

“He will. So will I.” 

The last three words held a distinct threat. John shifted his weight slightly, Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. 

“And why would that be?” John asked. 

“Do you know, globally, how many bitten alpha wolves exist?” 

Mycroft had stepped forward slightly, John tensed his back, glaring up and meeting the other wolf’s eyes. It could have been a trick of the light but they looked to be turning colour.

“I get the feeling you really want to tell me.”

Mycroft paused a moment before leaning back a little. “Precisely, one.” 

John let that information sink in, Mycroft meant him. No other bitten alpha existed. John exhaled steadily and then slowly inhaled he caught Mycroft’s scent and then, as she eased closer, Anthea’s. She didn’t appear to be intending to separate them. Mycroft’s eyes flickered to her and then back again, by which time they looked normal again. 

“You mean me.” 

“I do, Dr Watson. So Sherlock will find you more than interesting.” 

“Just because you don’t know of any other doesn’t mean to say there isn’t one. You can’t have checked the whole world.” 

Mycroft smirked. "Perhaps not. Fact of the matter is, however, until now, your biology has been thought to be completely impossible." 

"Why?" John asked with a shrug. "You get omega and beta wolves who had come from bites. Why not alphas?" 

"Why not indeed?" Mycroft mused. He looked around and then back directly to John. "The honest answer, I do not know. I can theorise. A human's body is weakened; traumatised by the attack perhaps. I do think the choice may be somewhat psychological. I mean, look at you, Dr Watson." 

John tensed again as Mycroft moved, slowly stepping to his left and then walking behind him, stalking a circle. It took all of John's self-control to stay still, only moving his head, to follow some of Mycroft's progress. The vibes the alpha male gave off were intended to intimidate, to show his aggression and power. John got the feeling that Mycroft wanted to make something of a point, trouble was, John did not entirely get it. 

"Bitten in combat, a situation which may have damaged you physically, and mentally." Mycroft paused as John growled, which actually surprised him as well as Mycroft. "But you were prepared for battle, even prepared to die maybe. What did go through your mind, the moment you saw that beast?" 

John clenched his jaw and said nothing for a few seconds, fighting to keep himself under control. 

"Are we finished? Because this seems to be going nowhere." 

"Trust issues, that's what your therapist believes, isn't it?" Mycroft asked. 

"How did you...?" 

"Yet, you had no hesitation in following Detective Inspector Lestrade on an errand to help a stranger."

"So?" 

"Contrary to what Sherlock thinks, I worry about him. As his guardian he will only allow me to do so much. If you would be willing to assist me, inform me of his movements...." 

"Spy on him, you mean." 

"Hardly that crass," Mycroft said. "Naturally you would be reimbursed for such an endeavour." 

"No." 

"I haven't even given you a figure." 

"You don't need to, the answer is no." 

"That's an alpha's loyalty if ever I heard it." 

"We're done here," John said. He almost turned away and then looked back. "Thank you for taking me off the register." 

"It's meaningless. A little PR exercise to appease the hysterical public. The number of names that could go on it are hardly worth the time and effort." 

"Really?" 

"Of course," Mycroft stepped forward again, and John snarled. Looking up at Mycroft, he sensed, smelt and saw the sudden shift in the man's demeanour. John swayed back onto his heels holding the gaze as he saw the change in the eyes, and a ripple across Mycroft's skin. 

"Despite popular public opinion, the infected population covers a miniscule part, and do you know why that is Dr Watson." 

John leant forward, if either of them moved as they stood toe to toe they would touch, which John didn't think would be very productive considering the aggression sparking between them. 

"You are so desperate to tell me," he growled at Mycroft. 

"If a werewolf shows his teeth, then his aim is not to bite, it is to kill." 

Mycroft smiled, again it went nowhere close to his eyes. John held the gaze. 

"Try it," he ordered Mycroft. 

John let his breathing steady, holding himself still, although his hand started to stray backwards, towards his gun. However, Mycroft suddenly stepped back, eyeing John carefully, his expression changing to one that seemed to find John less abhorrent. 

"Pleasure to meet you Dr Watson." 

John decided that pleasantry came out rather strained. 

"If you don't want to take me up on my offer, certainly think about Sherlock's." 

John didn't bother to ask how Mycroft knew, instead he watched him turn and walk away, over his shoulder he announced. 

"The car will drop you anywhere you wish to go."


	4. Back To Baker Street

The sky had just started to darken when John knocked on the door of Baker Street. He waited a moment, wondering what he was really doing there. The very moment he considered that, backing up away from the door, was the moment it opened. John smiled at Mrs Hudson.

"Hello again." 

"Dr Watson." 

"John, please." 

"Come in, Sherlock's upstairs." 

"Thanks, I just came to see if..." 

"Go on, I'll make you some tea, just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper." 

John frowned as he closed the door, although it wouldn't surprise him if Sherlock made random demands to her, it was probably something she said by habit, a lot. He headed up the stairs, following the sound of music coming from the living room. Sherlock stood by the window playing the violin vigorously, although he turned as John stepped over the threshold. He only glanced for a moment before turning away, merely registering the fact that John had appeared. 

For a moment John hesitated, unsure if that meant he was welcome or not. 

"I saw Mycroft this morning," John said. He had intended to ask something about how Sherlock was feeling, and how his wounds were, but the announcement came out instead, rather than him working up to it. Sherlock turned again, a frown on his face, and his music went from melodious to discordant, deliberately rather than by lack of concentration as it went on for several seconds before he went back to playing normally.

“He must have a new phone that I don’t know about.” 

“Try the entirety of the phone network, he kept making public phones ring when I walked past them and hijacked the CCTV network.” 

The tone of Sherlock’s playing changed again. 

“Oh, he does like to show off! Playing the big bad alpha I presume!” 

“And you dissecting my entire life wasn’t showing off.” 

Sherlock’s music altered again and he finished with a flourish. He spun on the spot, facing John.

“All I merely asked was where you served. I had narrowed it to two locations and wished to know which. You asked me how I knew what I had observed.” 

“So, if I hadn’t have asked, you wouldn’t have told me?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Why would I? You know your own life story.” 

Sherlock tossed the violin down and flopped onto the sofa, taking the hint John shuffled round to sit in the nearby chair. 

“So, Mycroft?” John prompted. 

"Oh, he does like to do that big bad alpha routine. How big is he? I wonder how his diet is going. He's bound to show up here soon enough. I wonder if I've got any chocolate biscuits, or doughnuts; I wonder if Mrs Hudson has anything in.” 

John raised his eyebrows, Sherlock’s eyes lost focus for a moment, clearly debating the possibilities of how to annoy Mycroft, and then they snapped back and looked at John. 

“He seemed concerned about you.” 

“Possibly he is,” Sherlock said.

"He offered to pay me to spy on you." 

Sherlock turned his head. "How much?" 

"We didn't get that far." 

"You said no?" Sherlock tutted and reached for his violin again, cradling it against his chest and plucking at the strings. "You could have made quite a bit of money." 

"It was the principle of the thing, and he annoyed me." 

Sherlock sat up. "How much?" 

"A lot. I just had to look at him."

"Alpha on alpha, never very productive." Sherlock started to eye John with distinct interest. John looked away, tilting his head up as Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray. 

"I've brought you some tea, just this once." 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, do we have any chocolate biscuits?" 

"Get your own; I'm not your housekeeper. Here you are." 

John jumped in surprise as Mrs Hudson put the tray down and fished a set of keys out of her apron pocket, handing them to him. 

"There's the second bedroom upstairs, if you need that. I’m not sure if you sleep like puppies." 

John frowned at a smug looking Sherlock, who also looked amused by the puppy reference. He looked back up at Mrs Hudson. 

"Well, I never agreed to..." John ended up taking the keys, glaring at Sherlock. 

"Why wouldn't you?" he asked, plucking at the violin again. "Your current bedsit is hardly congenial. Between us this place is affordable, and quite frankly you're probably the only person who could come close to putting up with me." 

"With the violin and not speaking for days on end?" John asked. "And you already live here, how can you not afford it?" 

Sherlock flopped back again. "I can and I've only just moved in, but I only receive a certain amount of money from my trust fund; for the rest of it Mycroft has the purse strings."

"Ah." 

"It is the most logical solution," Sherlock said. John frowned again. It was; that fact was undeniable, but John knew it wasn't just Sherlock needing a flatmate, he wanted John, because of what he was, and Mycroft wanted him there to do a job; and no doubt keep an eye on him. 

"You know it's what Mycroft wants." 

Sherlock huffed. "The guardian alphas are a strange Victorian concept to prevent omegas being deflowered before suitable matches could be made for them. It's nothing to do with protection and all about ensuring that breeding lines continue untainted. Pack leaders didn't want pure stock mixing with bitten, and humans. It’s a mild improvement on medieval times." 

“Really?” 

“Alphas were clearly more abundant then,” Sherlock said shrugging. “They would surround an eligible omega with alphas, even strong betas occasionally, and then eventually they would end up fighting for dominance and the winner would claim the omega.” 

“I thought omegas kept alphas calm.” 

“They do, but they can also send them into rut. Omegas have heats and use that to do so. It can be controlled, or you just absent yourself safely away from your alphas on those days.” 

John raised his eyebrows at the tone of voice; he hoped that it was not a reason Sherlock kept distance from Mycroft, and vice versa. That was a worrying concept. 

"Does it matter? The breeding." 

"With one thing and another we’ve become a little depleted and rather distanced. To breed a wolf, you need two pure bred wolves. Any children you have will not carry your infection, even if you impregnate a female wolf, pure or bitten." 

"Good to know." 

"There is no point worrying about me. I'm not going to get impregnated from a deflowering, and alphas are invariably males. I dread the day Mycroft finds an alpha female." 

"There are beta females." 

"I'm not a stud stallion," Sherlock snapped. 

“Sorry,” John said and drank some tea as a distraction. 

Sherlock shrugged again. “No reason you can’t ask questions. At least you can get some answers. Not all bitten wolves get that, they just end up with the problems.” 

“Yes, Mycroft informed me I am the only bitten alpha in the world.” 

“What does he know? I suppose he might know actually.” 

“He didn’t seem pleased about it.” 

“Another alpha on his patch, bound to make him antsy.” 

“So there aren’t many pure bred wolves left.” 

“Sometimes hard to tell. It was easier when there were more open spaces, places to roam and meet. Public hysteria never helps, people know of a wolf and it tends to make them think that we’ll start randomly biting people. Idiots.” 

“Mycroft explained that one.” 

“We had a bad time when the witch hunts went on. Matthew Hopkins managed to be the bane of our lives.” 

“Really?” John said. Sherlock turned and nodded. 

“Not just the Witchfinder General, also werewolf hunter.” 

John paused and thought about that. 

“And I suppose Abraham Lincoln really was a vampire hunter.” 

Sherlock glanced at John, a smirk flickering across his face. 

“Possibly,” Sherlock said with mock seriousness. 

“Please tell me vampires don’t really exist.” 

“In theory, as werewolves we can’t ignore the possibility. However, I have yet to find any clear evidence of one.” 

“Thank God for that.” 

Sherlock suddenly turned his head, and a moment later blue lights flashed from outside. Jumping up he dropped the violin and went to the window, peering out looking very pleased at what he saw. He turned to look at John, who tried to ignore the calculating look in Sherlock's eyes. 

Then Lestrade had appeared, and the evening had degenerated into chaos. 

And John, by his own actions, sealed his fate.


	5. Full Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story timeline puts this chapter between episodes 2 and 3 of series 1

“I enjoyed that,” Sarah said, slipping her hand into John’s as they walked out of the cinema. 

“So did I,” John said. “It’s nice to get out of the flat. Sherlock’s been a nightmare this past week.” 

Sarah rolled her eyes and smirked good-naturedly. She had been understanding of their odd relationship when she had met Sherlock on that first date she had had with John. The assumptions she had made did not in any way relate to their bestial sides, so John left it alone. It was not something he planned to randomly discuss with anyone, even someone he was dating, unless it became serious enough to warrant that type of discussion. 

“I’m sure he’s not that bad.”

John didn’t comment. Sherlock had been pacing around like a caged tiger, glaring at everything, throwing things around the flat and playing his violin at all hours. John was starting to wish a serial killer would turn up, just to cause a distraction. He had no idea what was going on, and the way Sherlock reacted to him sometimes John got a sneaking suspicion he ought to. 

They walked down the road; John glanced at his watch, wondering if they had time for a drink, before going home. 

“You can always stop at my place if you like,” Sarah said to him, with a clear hint. John smiled at her, it sounded like a wise idea, giving Sherlock some space, or at least himself some. Even though he didn’t say anything Sarah looked pleased with his response and turned to look around. They paused on a street corner and looking up Sarah smiled again. 

“I love it when the sky is like that.” 

John looked up and his heart froze before dropping heavily. The black, velvety sky was clear of clouds and dominating the scene, glowing against the black, was the moon. It was not entirely full, a small sliver remained hidden but it explained exactly what was wrong with Sherlock. John cursed himself inwardly. The movement of the moon should have been something he kept track of, for Sherlock’s sake. 

As a bitten wolf John could change form, but he wasn’t as tied to it as Sherlock. While he felt no impulsion to change during certain times, Sherlock did, in fact he almost couldn’t help himself, as if was written into his biology. The timescale reminded John it was almost a month since he had met Sherlock, his attack had been as the last full moon had started to fade. 

“John?” Sarah’s voice broke though his train of thought, and he turned to look at her. She knew nothing of the situation, and he couldn’t casually explain it to her. He had to get to Sherlock, but chances were Sherlock wouldn’t be at home by now. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his phone and turned it on, detaching his other hand from Sarah’s, an action which caused her to frown. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Erm… yeah fine, although I won’t be able to come back to yours, I’d better get back to check on Sherlock.” 

“He is a grown up, I’m sure he can look after himself.” 

John didn’t doubt that, but John was, and had been for the last month, acting as Sherlock’s guardian alpha. The incident with the taxi driver had sealed that, John had killed him without hesitation to protect Sherlock. 

“I know but…” 

John’s phone beeped several times. He had received two messages, both from his irate omega charge; one simply demanding to know where he was, the second gave an address, the nearest park to Baker Street, which was, John now knew, Sherlock’s current location, and he had presumably gone to do as his body demanded. John gritted his teeth and cursed, calculating the distance he would need to cover to get there. Looking up he put up a hand and waved at the cab. 

“Taxi!” 

“Look I’m really sorry but Sherlock has left me a text, I hate to abandon you…” John tailed off, it was exactly what he was about to do. As the cab pulled up John rattled off Sarah’s address and bundled her into the cab. “Do you mind?” 

“No, of course not.” 

The words said one thing, her face and body language said something else. John fumbled in his pocket to find her some money to pay for the fare. Sarah held up her hand. 

“That’s all right, I’ve got some money. I’m fine.” 

John gave another apologetic smile and shut the door watching the cab roar off down the road. Then he turned and looked around. For once he had a trace of luck as another free cab currently made it’s way down the road. John literally stepped in front of it to make sure the driver stopped. Jumping in he gave the address he wanted and waited, fidgeting impatiently in the back, wanting to get there as soon as possible. 

When he got there he needed to deal with another issue. He had to change, somewhere quiet. For a moment he dithered, wondering which way to go but as he slid through the park gate he caught Sherlock’s scent. He had passed this way, recently, the traces strong and easy to follow. John found, deep within a screen of bushes, Sherlock’s clothes neatly wrapped up in his coat. John didn’t bother being tidy, he just ripped everything off as swiftly as he could and closing his eyes tried to change. 

It was not something he felt greatly experienced in. He had seen Sherlock perform only once, most werewolves were, apparently, notoriously shy about having an audience during such a vulnerable time. John knew how to do it, he had performed the change, but only a handful of times, and now when he needed to do it, the urgency of the situation made it very off-putting. He tried to imagine it, his body flowing from one state to another, his skin started to tingle and he tried to push for it, and everything went to pot. He slumped down as the feeling of pins and needles faded and he sighed as he realised he had got nowhere. Taking a breath he tried to concentrate again following the advice Sherlock had given him. 

His eyes opened again as he heard a sound. A howl cut through the night air, John didn’t know how but he recognised it; he recognised it as Sherlock’s voice. His skin tingled again and then like a wave crashing over him everything suddenly seemed to click. The sensations rushed, crashing through his system with intense heat, nausea rising in his throat and searing pains as his joints snapped and changed. They were not designed for it, not like Sherlock's, naturally born to the sensation. His vision swirled as his eyes adjusted, blacking out for a moment as the pain became overwhelming, then just as swiftly John came back to himself. He lay sprawled on the soft earth, feeling it under his belly and paws. Shifting his head he snuffled his nose into the ground again locating Sherlock’s scent. John followed the trail, easing his way out of the bushes, weaving round the branches, wobbling a little as he got used to the sensation of balancing himself on four feet with a tail to distract him. 

As he started to jog gently across the park, nose still down to the ground - that was another balancing act he had to get used to - he heard another howl, this one more urgent, and still distinctively Sherlock’s. John lifted his head, looking around, still taking in the scents, realising Sherlock was not the only werewolf out. John flashed his teeth, stuck his nose in the air and called back. Immediately he got a response, more urgent than the previous call. He didn’t bother replying, instead he picked up the trail again and ran. 

The only problem was, Sherlock had not taken a direct route to his current location. His scent veered to the left, but the call appeared to be coming from John's right. John gave a rumble of uncertainty and then spun, diving to the right running, stumbling in haste, and on one occasion crashing to the ground as he misjudged his step. He struggled back to his feet, shaking his head and sniffing again. There were other scents now, strong ones of recently passed wolves, John crossed that trail and moved in a straight line realising the new scents split in two directions from one spot, as if circling. 

Moonlight flashed onto the scene in front of him as he cross the park and he slowed his run, checking his pace to assess the situation. 

As he closed in, it seemed clear enough. Two brown wolves flanked a darker coloured beast, the fur of that animal almost glowing in the moonlight, reflecting it stronger than the pair of attackers. The largest of the pair had his jaws clamped on the scruff of Sherlock's neck using his body weight to keep the smaller wolf’s head down and allowing Sherlock no leverage to move despite his struggles. John growled as he watched the second wolf sniffing around Sherlock's clamped down tail. And John's muzzle rippled baring his teeth as he watched the wolf about to mount. 

Eyes locked on the scene in front of him John sprinted forward, assessing the best method of attack. Neither wolf had time to react before John dived forward clamping his jaws around the right, hind leg of the man pinning Sherlock's neck. The wolf released his hold and Sherlock, who had been resisting the push down suddenly dropped his chin to the ground before rising up and slamming the top of his head into his attacker’s throat. It sent the wolf crashing sideways. John rolled with him refusing to relinquish his hold. The wolf howled in pain and John tightened his grip, his jaw aching as he held on while his victim tried to pull away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock spin on his hind legs to face the other brown wolf, who backed up, less keen on dealing with Sherlock's front end, which was quite obviously less congenial. 

Sherlock dived forward, snapping his teeth. He was forced to defend himself as the brown wolf snapped back, trying for Sherlock's foreleg. Quick as a flash Sherlock ducked out of the way and lunged for the wolf's throat. The scene distracted John, as he tried to ensure Sherlock was all right and a sharp tug meant John released his grip and his opponent staggered away, turning to snarl at him. John snarled back, sounds of aggression rumbling from his throat. As the wolf backed up he sniffed the air, lowering his body in submission. 

John knew their scent to be betas, both of them bitten. If Mycroft's information was accurate then they would assume that John's alpha scent was natural, that he was born a wolf, and he was Sherlock’s guardian. One of those was true, the other not so, but it didn’t matter. John knew how to fight, and although he had been forced to concentrate to manage something simple as running, his adrenaline had peaked, and he stopped thinking about it so much. He reacted by instinct, his reformed muscles doing the job for him. 

As the wolf dived at him again John sidestepped before slamming his body into the beta’s and biting at his shoulder. Beyond his own battle he could hear Sherlock holding his own, but part of John’s mind wondered if these two, because in the last attack there had been two, were the same ones, waiting for Sherlock to arrive on his territory before they attacked. 

White hot rage swamped his mind as he thought about that, his animalistic brain deciding that it was an infringement of his own territory. He went where Sherlock went, it was as simple as that. He lunged again for the throat, snagging his teeth into fur and skin. The bite wasn't deep, but he dragged at the skin, tasting blood in his mouth. His opponent howled, backing up, dragging his injured leg behind him. John snarled, lowering his shoulders to pounce. The beta decided enough was enough and he turned and fled. And on seeing his friend go, the other one turned and ran, streaking after him. 

John growled, leaping forward to chase them, his blood fired up for the fight. As he ran he went a few steps before crashing his snout into something, he almost snapped again until the scent of the blockage filled his now slightly bruised nose. Sherlock gave a low rumble, pushing his body into John's, ensuring that he kept his shoulder close to John's nose to keep his scent filtering into his alpha's rattled senses. Lifting his head he rubbed his chin across John's spine, giving another low, calming rumble. 

The reply didn't sound entirely calm but John seemed more sensible. Sherlock stayed still as John sniffed around his neck, pausing as he located the damage on his scruff, where he had been held down. John gave a slight whine of concern, hesitating a moment before he ran his tongue over one of the wounds. Sherlock stayed still, both startled and comforted by the instinctive reaction. Feeling bolder John licked again. 

Sherlock only snapped as John's head moved down his body and he snuffled around Sherlock's tail. He gave John a warning, snapping his teeth and shifting his rear end away. John growled back shoving Sherlock's shoulder to try and push him round again. He went so far and then swivelled again, giving another warning, telling John he was fine. The wolf hadn't actually managed to get anywhere. John huffed and gave him something of a 'we'll talk about this later' sound. 

Ducking his head Sherlock nudged against John's side, feeling grateful that he had turned up when he did. John's apologetic reply came through clearly, and he licked at the wounds again. He paused as Sherlock's tail wagged and he ducked away jogging a few steps before turning to wait for John. Taking the hint he followed, which Sherlock took as the moment to turn and streak across the park. John chased after him. 

There was no way he could outrun Sherlock, on three occasions John lost co-ordination and crashed over. Every time he did Sherlock circled back, tongue lolling out of his mouth in what John thought was amusement. The third time John got to his feet shaking himself to dislodge the leaves and grass from his coat. Sherlock ambled back sniffing along his side to check he was all right, the rumbling sound vibrating in his chest sounding like laughter. John huffed and bashed into him, knocking Sherlock over. He rolled back up and tossed his head, then he paused, nose in the air, tail dropping slightly as he sniffed, head moving warily from side to side. 

Very carefully he lowered his nose, and tilted his head to the side, cocking one ear towards a screen of bushes to their left. Taking the hint John shifted and eased his gaze to work out what was the focus of Sherlock's attention. 

It was then he realised Sherlock had run them full circle, back to where they had started. Someone lingered in the bushes, close to their clothes. Sherlock's teeth flashed white as he bared them for a moment. He abruptly turned and trotted off, away from the bushes, and John jogged on his heels staying close to the dark wolf. Then Sherlock dodged to the right and disappeared into another thick copse. 

He gave a little grunt of satisfaction as his subterfuge worked. The lingering stranger, waiting for sight of a werewolf moved through the trees, easing back to the fence line. For a moment John saw the temptation on Sherlock's face to dive forward and give the man the fright of his life. Instead he ducked out, ran down the edge of the bushes, while the man struggled along a more difficult route and Sherlock ducked into the bushes, leaping a branch to reach the spot they had left their clothes. 

As John shot through Sherlock had almost changed back, his skin translucent in the moonlight filtering through the branches. As he finished shifting he turned to John, whispering urgently. 

"How quick can you change?" 

John shrugged, not quickly enough. Sherlock slipped into his coat and gathered up the rest of the clothes. 

"Distract him, meet me by the lake." 

John nodded, sliding back crashing down the tree line again, leading the Peeping Tom away before turning and running full pelt across the park. He caught Sherlock's trail and met him in the shadow of a large tree, the water rippling gently, reflecting the bright white disc hanging in the sky. Sherlock sat down, sliding his coat off to put the rest of his clothes on. John eased around the far side of the tree to change form. 

It felt easier than before, but still he must have blacked out as he opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring down at him in concern. 

"Are you all right?" 

John nodded, coughed and managed to croak out a "fine," as he eased himself up. 

"Get dressed. It will take a while for that idiot to follow, but I don't want to risk him getting close. He might recognise the clothes." 

John nodded, shaking his head and stretching his back before slipping his jumper over his head. 

"What's he doing anyway?" 

"By the camera I would suggest looking for footage, or maybe even evidence of our identity." 

"Charming." 

"More than likely just someone trying to catch sight and get a video clip. It happens; people appear to have nothing better to do with their evenings." 

John stuffed his shoes on his feet and stood up, wavering on his feet slightly as the blood rushed from his head. Sherlock caught his arm and steadied him. 

"Still not used to it?" 

"No, I don't shift that often." 

"That's an annoying habit you bittens have so when the need suddenly hits or you lose control you can't do anything about it. It's ridiculous to avoid it." 

"I don't think it's avoiding it," John said as they walked briskly across the park. "It just isn't necessary."

"I wonder if you are the only person from the armed forces to survive a bite." 

"Why?" 

"Speculations," Sherlock said as they slipped through the park gates and turned left, then Sherlock dropped his shoulders and sighed. John exhaled as the sleek black car drifted to the kerb beside them and the driver got out to open the back door. 

"You have got to be kidding me," John muttered. Sherlock grunted. The driver eyed them impassively. Sherlock turned to meet John's eyes and then obediently got into the car. With no recourse John followed.


	6. A Display Of Dominance

The meeting place was, John decided, more congenial as they passed into the classy looking club. 

"What is this place?" John asked earning several disapproving glares. 

"Shush," Sherlock murmured. "You're not meant to talk in here." 

Sherlock received another round of disapproving glares. Sherlock glared back and then stalked on through the large lounge area. John wandered along behind, taking in the Victorian style furnishings, at least he decided it looked Victorian. Interior design was not one of his fortes. He also realised that no one appeared to acknowledge anyone else and the room deathly silent other than the occasional rustle of newspaper and the clink of glasses as a neatly dressed porter poured drinks. 

John rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock through an archway, past a flight of stairs and down a dark, wood-panelled corridor. They were alone by that point so John tried again.

"So, where are we?" 

"The Diogenes Club. Very exclusive, I'm a member," Sherlock said. 

"It doesn't smell werewolf related." 

Sherlock paused by a door, resting a hand on the doorknob as he turned to glance at John. 

"It's not," he said turning the handle and pushing open the door. John followed on his heels as Sherlock entered the room, looking around. 

"The Strangers Room," he told John in way of explanation. "The only place you can have a conversation around here, and it's very private." 

"And discreet," another voice interjected smoothly. "It stays within these walls." 

John didn't even need to turn to feel his ire rise at Mycroft's presence. Thankfully he had not seen him over the last month and he and Sherlock had not even bothered to talk about him. He felt Sherlock press against him lightly as he pushed the door closed, the latch clicking into place. Sherlock leant back against the door and stared at Mycroft. 

"What do you want? And it wasn’t hard to work out that that little hedge crawler was sent by you." 

John blinked in surprise but as Mycroft looked chagrined by the comment he could only presume that Sherlock had that correct. 

"Why would he?" John asked. 

"A discreet check on my whereabouts during my change. I know all the werewolves under Mycroft's control, there is no way he could hide it that way, but disguise the spy as one of those odious people who are determined to catch sight of one of us, and I might not catch on." 

"Really Sherlock, you do let your imagination get the better of you sometimes," Mycroft's voice remained entirely congenial. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"I don't have an imagination, I have observations," Sherlock informed his brother. 

"So do I," Mycroft said. 

Sherlock pushed himself away from the door, walking lithely across the room. John watched Mycroft assess him intensely. Sherlock dropped into a chair. With a sigh John crossed the room to sit in the other and Mycroft's face flickered with irritation. Sherlock had positioned himself perfectly, at least for himself. To take a direct route to him Mycroft had to negotiate a small bookcase by the side of the table. Going the other way meant he had to pass John, which would not be an easy task. 

"I thought he seemed a little easily drawn away from the clothing. Plus he hadn't touched it, which meant he didn't bother to look though the items in the hope of finding some identification, and since the phone looked like a piece of high tech MI5 surveillance equipment, which did not exactly equate with his appearance, it was not difficult to make the deduction. I'm fairly certain you are not meant to use highly classified technology for your own purposes."

"Very good Sherlock. I am wondering what to deduce from you being alone when you changed." 

John flinched inwardly. Sherlock on the other hand, looked unperturbed. 

"If your agent did his job properly then you are aware of the events. Neither of those beta wolves would have made themselves known if I had an alpha at my side. That surely makes it simple enough for you to work out."

"And Dr Watson running late was also your plan?" 

"His taxi was held up," Sherlock said with a shrug, glancing at John calmly. 

"And his trip to the cinema with one Dr Sawyer also part of the plan?" 

John jumped, looking startled. Sherlock growled. 

"It's none of your business." 

With a snarl Mycroft moved so quickly it startled the pair of them. He pushed the bookcase out of his way, sending it crashing sideways, leather bound books scattering across the floor. Sherlock tensed but didn't move as Mycroft's hand latched onto his hair, the other pulled the scarf from around his brother's neck, which he had not removed, despite the fire in the room. Mycroft yanked Sherlock's head forward and down, exposing his scruff and Mycroft examined the bite mark from the beta wolf that had pinned him. 

John heard himself growl, blood crashing in his ears. Sherlock remained very still, breathing steadily as Mycroft leant down to sniff the back of his brother's neck and then slowly run his tongue over one of the puncture wounds that still leaked blood. 

"Get off me," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth. John felt frozen in shock, the disturbing nature of the scene stilling him. Mycroft lifted his head slightly but didn't release Sherlock, who remained as still as possible. 

"Do I have to check anywhere else?" 

"NO!" John said in shock. Mycroft looked up, his face human, his eyes lupine, glowing amber in the firelight. His upper lip curled back and he gave a low warning growl. Sherlock tried to move his head to glance at John, but Mycroft's grip tightened. 

"That scene is disturbing enough as it is," John said. 

Mycroft straightened up but didn't release his hold from Sherlock's hair. To John's surprise Sherlock didn't fight the pull, instead he dropped forward, sliding out of the chair, onto his knees and then as Mycroft let go he sprawled on the floor at his feet, head down, body slightly curled up in a submissive posture. 

Sherlock's submission seemed more disturbing than anything to John, it didn't suit the person he had known over the past month. It did, however, explain why Sherlock avoided being anywhere near his brother. Mycroft glared down at Sherlock, as if waiting for something. For a long moment Sherlock remained still before slowly tilting his head upwards to look at Mycroft and John sat back in his chair as he caught the scent of Sherlock's pheromones. Mycroft inhaled deeply, his tension easing as he received the calming scent.

Again Sherlock moved slowly, sitting back on his heels, keeping his eyes fixed on Mycroft before leaning forward and rubbing his head against Mycroft's hip. Once again Mycroft's hand wound into Sherlock's hair, the hold gentler but as John watched, he didn't doubt that Mycroft would cling on if Sherlock tried to retreat. 

John couldn't take his eyes off the incredibly tension filled scene. But Sherlock seemed to have calmed the emotion as Mycroft stepped back from him and went past the chaos he had caused to retake his seat. Sherlock did the same, unbuttoning his coat as he sat back down again, there was no point in trying to hide any of the injuries now. John watched the pair of them, not entirely sure where he wanted to look. 

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock eventually asked. 

"Fine, apart from that mildly disturbing display." 

"You are not a bred wolf, you cannot possibly comprehend," Mycroft told him. 

"Now you have quite finished telling us that you're in charge, can you please get to the point," Sherlock said. 

"The point is, Sherlock, that Dr Watson was rather lax in his duties tonight, when he should have been with you." 

"I explained that," Sherlock said. He glanced at John, who realised that contradicting Sherlock at that point would hardly be productive. Instead he said. 

"I misjudged the timings of the film," John said. "That was why I ran late." 

Mycroft looked unimpressed. But he seemed to accept what John said. Sherlock looked relived. 

"And you dragged us all the way here for that?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft glared at him again. 

"If I choose to drag you anywhere, then you will allow it. Now, am I required to check you fully?" 

"No, Mycroft. They were intercepted before it went that far. They entered through the east gate, there is CCTV from that area, so no doubt you have them on camera."

"I do, and since one of them will be favouring his right leg for some time, they won't be hard to pick up." 

"And then what?" John asked looking from one to the other. "I get the feeling you don't politely explain that they shouldn't do that."

"I intend to find out their origin, Dr Watson. There has been a...." 

"An influx?" Sherlock suggested. 

"Precisely. An influx of wolves in and around London." 

"But, they move around don't they, even if it's just to go somewhere else for the full moon, when they need to change," John said. He knew some things, Sherlock generally answered questions if asked and John had filtered through the hearsay with those basic facts. 

Mycroft nodded. "By nature, and necessity, the packs are transient, but generally do not gather in too large a population in one place. The groupings have moved but there seems to be a very consistent localisation around my pack's most prominent omega." 

"Sherlock?" John asked. 

Sherlock shrugged and nodded. "So, Mycroft believes."

"I don't believe it, Sherlock, I know it. It is probably not helped by the fact you are becoming increasingly known in the human world. This certainly does not help." 

Mycroft opened his laptop and typed something before turning the device so they could look at the screen. John raised his eyebrows as he looked at his blog. Sherlock, who had never actually looked at it before now peered at it. 

"A Study In Pink?" 

"Well, you know, pink suit, pink case, pink phone, there was a lot of pink." 

Sherlock read a few lines. "There are some rather glaring grammatical errors, but the events appears accurate. I am not arrogant!" 

Mycroft pushed the laptop to shut it with a snap. John glared at Sherlock. 

"I didn't say you were; I said you appeared it." 

"It is not appropriate," Mycroft said. 

"There is no mention of werewolves in it, it has nothing to do with the case, or any of them that I have written about." 

Sherlock reached out and opened the laptop again, looking through the blog intently. 

"Interesting, it’s like hiding me in plain sight, why would anyone look at this and think I am a werewolf?” Sherlock scanned further. “Who is this person? And what advice did I give her?" 

"That photo I showed you, from the woman who wasn't sure if her boyfriend was cheating on her with her best friend, you said he was, something about the body language, the tilt of his head and the fact that clearly displayed he had his unseen hand on the best friend's arse. And that she should confront the best friend rather than the boyfriend. Best friends tend to tell, you said, boyfriends deny." 

"Oh, that," Sherlock said losing interest and closing the laptop again. "I do not wish to be used as a relationship guide."

John shrugged. "I was just interested what you would make of it." 

“Next time tell me why you are interested,” Sherlock sniped at him. John rolled his eyes. Mycroft glared at the pair of them. 

“Have you started tracking those two betas?” Sherlock asked Mycroft shifting the subject matter. 

“It’s in hand. You can go now.” 

John glanced at Sherlock who took his turn to roll his eyes. Getting up he fastened his coat and wrapped his scarf back around his neck. He stalked towards the door, and flinging it open walked out. After a moment’s pause John ran to catch up with him. He stopped on the threshold as Mycroft curtly called his name.

Mycroft’s piercing gaze fixed on him. 

“Your job is to keep interlopers off Sherlock. Ensure tonight’s incident does not get repeated.” 

John gave a curt nod, biting his tongue to control his urge to retort. There was a very distinct ‘or else’ to that order and John got the feeling he didn’t want to know what that really meant.


	7. The Revelation

It had taken a few days of hard work on John’s part to bring Sarah round. It didn’t help that John had to avoid telling her the truth. He instead told her an urgent case had come up. In the end she accepted the explanation and to make up for it John intended to take her out for dinner. She was running the late night surgery and they had arranged that John would meet her at the health centre. Sherlock was safely at home finishing an experiment and depositing various unsavoury items across the kitchen. 

As he opened the side entrance, pressing the code to unlock the door he froze, nostrils flaring. He could smell blood and the scent lying with that was familiar. The hackles on his neck rose instinctively. Taking a calming breath he walked stealthily down the corridor his hand sliding under his coat and he cursed. He didn’t have his gun on him, why would he if he was going on a date?

A loud crash caused him to pause, head tilting as he also heard a shout and a female voice yelping. It came from the pharmacy to his left. John walked silently down the corridor. Sarah had been the one designated to lock up which meant she would be the female. John’s senses confirmed that, he could catch traces of her perfume in the corridor, and one of her shoes lay abandoned by the pharmacy door. Along with traces of Sarah’s scent John picked up beta wolf, the smell of sweat sweet with sickness. 

“Give me something you bitch!” 

“I don’t have…” Sarah’s frightened voice stammered and the sound of boxes and bottles tipping onto the floor followed. 

John eased the partially closed door open, peering round to see how much danger Sarah was in. She had backed up around the central workspace, the wolf, in human form, leant heavily against it, favouring his right leg and his face shiny with feverish sweat. John gave up on subtlety as the beta inhaled and his head turned towards the door. John pushed it open. 

“John, careful!” 

Sarah scurried back away from the wolf as he lunged, trying to grab her. Backing away she shrank into the corner watching John in shock as he suddenly growled, the warning sound rumbling through his chest. The beta staggered back and Sarah yelped again as fur surged up through his skin and his joints snapped. She crawled to the exit but then hesitated in the lee of the door as John responded to the surge of pheromones. His own changed snapped through him, his shirt ripping as his body reformed. 

The beta lunged, and then thought better of it as John pulled clear of the tattered fabric and bared his teeth. John moved sideways, keeping himself between the wolf and Sarah. It gave the cornered wolf an escape. John’s prominent thought was to protect Sarah, so he let the wolf dive forwards and then as the animal got too close he lunged himself. They met in a flurry of snarls and snapping teeth, tumbling through the door. Sarah crawled after them, glancing around the door, watching the two beasts scuffle in the corridor. 

She had no way out, she couldn’t attempt to run. The only thing she could do was call the police or… someone. The thought caused her to pause. One of the wolves was John and the police, if she told them what they were dealing with, tended to handle that with extreme prejudice. She didn’t even know if she could get to the phone without either of them seeing her. The phone was screwed to the wall on the far side of the door but the fighting pair seemed too close. As she looked around she spotted John’s jacket and his mobile poking out from one of the pockets. Wincing as she did so she eased her hand out. The scuffling had moved down the corridor so she snatched it up and looked at the display. 

Unlocking it she debated. Could she really call the police? Her hands shook as she pressed buttons and accidentally opened John’s contact list. It was sparse, with only her own name, someone called Harry and two others, Greg, she had met once, a police friend that John knew through… Sherlock. 

She had tried to like him, for John’s sake, but trying wasn’t enough. He seemed to think John was at his beck and call, and John allowed it. But on this occasion Sherlock probably knew what to do. How could John not have told his best friend about what he was? 

Without even thinking she was doing it she pressed the button to call Sherlock. After ringing twice Sherlock picked it up. 

“John, we may need a new microwave, unless you are happy to clean it….” 

“It’s Sarah,” she said, cutting off Sherlock’s rambling. 

“Oh?” Sherlock paused, wondering what was going on. He paused from poking the gelatinous substance that had splatted across the inside of the microwave and straightened up. 

“He came in, this man… a wolf… he broke in! He’s got an injury on his leg he was looking for drugs and then John….” 

Sherlock wasn’t really listening to her; the words were correlating in his mind with the scuffling he could here in the background behind her. 

“They’ve both changed?” 

“They’re fighting, and I…” 

“Where are you?” Sherlock demanded. Behind his voice she could hear the rustle of material, which was Sherlock shrugging on his coat, and then she heard him running. “I’m in the pharmacy. They’re out…” 

“Can you safely lock yourself away from them?” Sherlock snapped curtly. 

“Yes.” His tone snapped her to attention. She slammed the door shut and pushed the bolts across, which the pharmacists used to prevent people from wandering in while they worked. Lifting her head she checked the grill over the counter had been locked. 

“I’ve done that!”

“Was John dressed when he changed?” 

Sarah frowned, glancing at the pile of fabric on the floor. “It happened so suddenly.” 

I’ll take that as a yes, and I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Sherlock informed her, and again she could hear him running. She listened for a minute before flinching as he shouted. “Taxi!” 

He seemed to have forgotten he was on the phone to her as she heard him rattle off the address to the cab driver. It appeared he hadn’t as a moment later he spoke to her again. 

“Stay put, and whatever you hear, don’t unlock the door!” 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The sounds from within the surgery had quietened down. Sarah inched closer to the locked door and pressed her ear against it. Again there was nothing to hear, just some odd low scuffles which she couldn’t identify. She jumped, giving a yelp as the phone in her hands vibrated and Sherlock's name flickered up onto the screen. 

She pressed a button and opened the text which asked 'what's the code for the door? - SH'

For a few seconds she stared at it without comprehension, until the same text came through again and it occurred to her that Sherlock stood outside the staff entrance. Fumbling with the phone she typed in the code and sent the text back. Then she waited, looking at the phone and then pressing her ear to the door again. It seemed ominously quiet considering the ruckus which had been going on earlier. 

Outside the surgery Sherlock pressed the buttons and heard the latch click. He put his shoulder to the door and slowly eased it open far enough for him to slide through and he let it drift shut behind him, waiting until the latch clicked back into place. He stayed still for a moment, staring down the corridor, which told him nothing. It was plain, carpeted in a vile, institutional beige, and the walls a light cream. Reaching into the waistband of his trousers he pulled the gun he had taken from John's room, which John thought was well hidden, Sherlock had never bothered to tell him otherwise; and bent down to put the carrier bag he had brought with him on the floor. 

Then he growled as his phone rang. He fumbled in his pocket with his free hand, keeping the gun raised. Finally getting to the phone he pressed the answer button. 

"What?" he hissed. 

"Are you all right?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth for a moment. "Fine, I'm just through the door. What's the layout of the building from the end of the corridor when it goes left and right?" 

As he asked the question he walked slowly down, moving silently, keeping his back to one wall and the gun pointed ready. He paused, easing the phone away from his ear to listen to the subdued snarls and pants coming from somewhere in the building. 

"I'm in the pharmacy, that's to the left. To the right is the waiting room." 

"Right, stay where you are, I will come and find you as soon as I have...." 

"No, don't hang up on me!" she hissed desperately. Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes, but keep focused on where he was going. He eased away from the right wall to place his back against the left so as he came to the end he could easily look to the right and see what faced him in the waiting area. Getting to the corner he kept the gun aimed and leant sideways. 

What he could see of the room was chaos. Chairs had been overturned, magazines spread across the floor and the tip of John's tail flicked back and forth, just in sight. Sherlock stepped forward, frowning as he heard the sound of metal grating, then a dull thud followed as Sarah pulled back the bolts on the door. She peered out in time to watch Sherlock pace gently towards the waiting room. Tiptoeing out, she followed him, picking up her shoe as she went. She almost started to upright the pot plant that had been tipped over until Sherlock turned his head back and glared at her.

That done he eased around the corner, correctly guessing, from the angle of John's hindquarters, where his attention was. Stepping into view Sherlock surveyed the scene. The brown beta wolf hunched in a corner, blood trailing onto the pristine floor from the leg wound John had inflicted a few days previously. The beta's right ear had been ripped, he had a vicious bite wound on his side, just on his ribs and he panted heavily causing Sherlock to wonder if he didn't also have a few broken ribs. As he looked up at Sherlock he bared his teeth. Sherlock aimed the gun between the beta's eyes. 

"I will if you make me," he informed the wolf. The teeth stayed bared but the growling ceased. Sherlock lowered his eyes to check John. 

He seemed almost as battered, a chunk of fur had been ripped from his haunches and as he shifted towards Sherlock he hobbled on his front paw, Sherlock winced; it looked swollen, and slightly angled. Still, Sherlock assessed, it was a front leg, so when John shifted his wrist would be sore, but there was a good chance the shift would pop the joint back, if it was dislocated, or reset a sprain, with a minimum of problems.

“Are you all right John?” 

The wolf gave a pained rumble and he sidestepped closer to Sherlock, hopping on his undamaged front leg. From behind him Sherlock heard Sarah gasp, and her hand latched onto his coat, pulling on his shoulder. The beta snarled again, Sherlock stepped forward, hoping that Sarah would take the hint and release him. Instead she stepped with him. The beta’s eyes darted around, looking for an escape. 

“You move from that corner, I will shoot you,” Sherlock informed him. “Sarah, I left a carrier bag by the door, can you go and fetch it.” 

Her hand clenched on his coat, and she stayed behind him, as close as she could get without actually brushing against him. He felt quite surprised by her reaction; on that first date with John when he had first met her, she hardly seemed like a wilting violet. He turned his head to look at her, her eyes were not fixed on the wolf that attacked her but John, whose ears had dropped slightly, his tail drooping. Sherlock rolled his shoulder to get her attention and then inclined his head in the correct direction. 

“Get the bag,” he informed her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John’s ears prick up at the unusually gentle way he spoke. Sarah looked around uncertainly. 

“Will you be…” 

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock assured her. “Go.” 

In the end she reluctantly went to do as she was told, her legs clearly wobbling as she walked. John gave a rumble of uncertainly, turning as if to follow her. 

“Stay there,” Sherlock said. “You need to change back. I brought some clothes as it was apparent that you had damaged what you were wearing.” 

John cocked one of his ears curiously. He turned as Sarah reappeared with the carrier bag. Sherlock reached out and took it with his free hand. 

“John, I need you to change back,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s best you get Sarah out of here and you can’t do it like that.” 

“No!” Sarah said again, sharply. Her hand latched back onto Sherlock, which caused him to frown, more in curiosity than anger. “Shouldn’t John stay with… what happens now?” 

In the space of those few seconds Sherlock deduced two things. Sarah hadn’t made any connection to himself being involved in the situation, other than his knowledge of John; and the second being that Sherlock was probably best to not be in the building when Mycroft arrived. 

“Okay. John go and change.” Sherlock shifted his grip on the bag and held it out. John took it in his jaws and limped off out of sight. The beta wolf snarled as John left the room and Sherlock restrained his own urge to growl. Behind him Sarah moved sideways to avoid John and she bumped her shoulder against Sherlock’s back. 

“What happens now?” she asked. 

Good question, Sherlock thought.


	8. The Clean Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys start to get a little physical ;-)  
> Oh and dana_san, it was the other wolf snarling as John left. I didn't make the text clear enough.

Emotionally wrought females were not Sherlock's forte. He had managed to get Sarah home, and settle her somewhat before she quite clearly had enough of his behaviour and sent him on his way. He had easily established that she had no intention of telling anyone about John, which was all he really needed to know. And she still had no idea of what Sherlock was. 

He let himself into the flat and paused as he reached the top of the stairs. There were only light sounds, but he immediately noted they came from the bathroom and he could also catch the lingering scent of blood, notably John's blood. He turned on his heel and went to the bathroom door. John had locked it, he usually did. Sherlock opened it. 

"Sherlock!" John yelped in objection. It didn't matter what he did to the lock - tighten the screws, adjust the catch - somehow Sherlock jiggled the handle and the door opened for him every time. Sherlock never bothered locking it anyway. John wondered if he should get a bolt and at the same time he shoved Sherlock backwards and shut the door again. 

"What? You're injured!" 

"I'm also naked!" 

"And? As good a doctor as you are, you can't reach those marks on your back. John!" 

Sherlock tried the door again and snarled as he realised John had leant against it to stop him getting in. 

"I've seen you naked. Let me in and I'll deal with those wounds." 

The weight on the door sighed heavily and then moved. Sherlock opened the door in time to see John grabbing one of the bath towels to wrap around his hips to at least maintain some semblance of modesty. He chose not to comment and instead looked at the scratches and bites that covered John, mainly his back and shoulders. The towel was just short enough to also reveal the vicious bite on his thigh where the beta had clearly managed to latch on firmly, ripping the skin and muscle. His wrist looked swollen and clearly painful as John tried to wring out the cloth he had been cleaning himself up with. Sherlock removed it from his grasp and rinsed it in the water again. John backed up, lowering the toilet seat to sit down. Sherlock glanced at him. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Sore,” John said. “Only really starting to feel it now.” 

“The adrenaline probably acted as a painkiller, plus you tend to not feel as much pain in wolf form.” 

“I think my wrist is sprained,” John commented, flexing the joint tentatively. 

“I’ll wrap it up when I have done this.” 

John nodded and shuffled sideways to allow Sherlock access to his back. He winced in sympathy as he looked at some of the gouges and teeth marks. John held himself still as Sherlock carefully started to clean them, crouching down to bathe the lower ones. He braced himself against the wall to be able to reach up and rinse the cloth without moving too much. 

“I think this one might need stitches,” Sherlock commented of one that ran across John’s back, from the base of his right shoulder blade across towards his spine in a six inch line. The top two inches of the wound still leaked heavily. John tilted his head in an attempt to peer over his shoulder. 

“Can you manage that?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said slightly distracted. John tensed as he felt Sherlock move behind him and then heard him inhale deeply. After a moment Sherlock repeated it, his nose brushing against John’s spine his leant in so close. 

“You smell… aggressive,” Sherlock murmured. John’s eyes widened in shock, and he felt a little unsure how to respond to that comment. 

“I have just been in a fight,” John eventually said, his voice stammering as he felt Sherlock’s hair brush against his skin. His hands had moved, holding John around the waist, sliding down to his hips. They tensed on him as he jumped. Sherlock’s tongue ran across the bleeding wound. John gasped, the lick had been tentative, as if Sherlock hadn’t been entirely sure how John would react. Behind him he heard Sherlock give a low settling growl. His hands remained still, holding John in place as he leant in to lick again, this time the entire length of the wound, slowly, tasting the blood and inhaling to absorb John's scent, now stronger from the fact he had asserted his status in a fight. 

Sherlock knelt up, reaching up to sniff the scar on John's shoulder, the remnant of the bite that had turned him. He watched John's shoulder muscles flex under the light touch. There was something dark, a sense of burning, about the scar. 

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. He received another low rumble in response, another soothing sound that eased his senses. Sherlock's tongue ran across his back again, licking at another wound. John felt quite disturbed by the part of his mind that liked it, a part that found the entire process completely normal. 

On hearing his name being repeated, Sherlock paused, resting his forehead on John's back, keeping hold of him. John had shown no sign of trying to get away. Doing so in their small bathroom would have been damn near impossible without injury anyway. He could hear the question in the way John spoke, although he was not angry. Sherlock knew when John was angry. 

He didn't get angry in the way Sherlock knew. Not as an alpha would. It was over silly, human things. Things such as Sherlock forgetting to buy milk when John asked, over not eating, over him leaving suspect items in the fridge, making random mess when he was bored or busy or the many things that Sherlock made himself so he would not, for a moment, dare to think about what he really was. 

John made him that way. Not deliberately. But he liked to make John angry just to defer to him. There was safety in it. There was safety in pushing John, he could safely anger an alpha and the consequences were fine. Sherlock could further hide himself in the human world, because the other one, the one where he should have belonged didn't bear thinking about. 

"I should stitch that wound," Sherlock said slowly lifting his head and drawing his mind back to the matter in hand. After a pause John slowly  
relaxed.

"Okay." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Mycroft walked down the corridor towards the interrogation room. Anthea strolled beside him, exuding some of her usual calm, but since he didn't want to be calm, she knew better than to overdo it. She knew exactly what she was doing when she was around him. There was something soothing about that in itself, never mind her scent. 

However, he didn't want to be soothed. He wanted some answers and at least tonight's disaster meant he might get some. Answers as to why the increase in wolves had been occurring and why they seemed to be circling Sherlock. 

That could just be paranoia on Mycroft's part. Sherlock had always done that to him. Since the day he had been born Mycroft had taken care of, and been responsible for, Sherlock. There was no one else to do it. Their father had taken one sniff of Sherlock's babyish scent, of the clear fact he had been an omega male, a genetic throwback that rarely turned up, and rejected the child almost immediately. Their mother had been too ashamed to even react. 

Mycroft had already been developing as a strong alpha and Sherlock, when in the womb, anticipated to be the same, and even if he had turned out a beta it would have been fine, but no, Sherlock had to be different. He couldn't even conveniently be a girl. An omega female would have been perfect. And in that case, she would have been raised expecting to be paired with an alpha. There would have been one pack willing to forge such a link to establish a strong breeding line. 

Even with Sherlock as he was two alphas had shown flickers of interest, but naturally Sherlock's nature put paid to either of them. Not that Mycroft blamed him at all by that stage. His view of alpha's skewed by his experience. Oddly, Sherlock's slow downfall in the eyes of the pack had been Mycroft's rise. 

From a young age defending his younger brother had been necessary, as the other wolves they encountered teased, bullied and sometimes tortured him. Mycroft had felt obliged to keep a close eye on him. Sometimes that eye missed the details but he had been forced to put stronger and stronger measures out to defend Sherlock, so by the time it came to jostle for dominance as the next pack leader Mycroft had already soundly thrashed most of the potential competition at one time or another, and many of them did not wish for a repeat. So all that remained on the death of the previous leader was for Mycroft to step forward. There were no challenges by that point, and it increased his responsibility for his out-of-place brother. 

He guessed the turning point had occurred when Sherlock had been twelve, on the day that Mycroft had encountered him with an alpha and his beta sidekick, in a bedroom of the house of the pack member they had been visiting. 

The beta wolf had wrestled Sherlock onto his knees, pinning his arms behind his back while the alpha had Sherlock by the hair, rutting into his mouth, taking full advantage of the omega. The moment Mycroft's scent had drifted to them the scene changed. Sherlock hadn't been able to take on both of them but the moment he realised Mycroft was close he had bitten down on the alpha, much to his panic, and then Mycroft had followed up by beating both of Sherlock’s molesters to a bloody pulp. Sherlock helped on that occasion, and from that point onwards, it seemed to be the pattern. 

It had also become apparent over the years that Mycroft was the only alpha that could illicit any sort of submissive behaviour from Sherlock, and those occasions were rare. Nothing fitted when it came to Sherlock, he contradicted himself over and over again. The situation annoyed Mycroft. Not that it would even be admitted openly, but he was aware that Sherlock's mind surpassed his, not by much but enough for Mycroft to notice. Yet he never employed it enough to get himself anywhere. He had spent years playing detective. It was like he was trying to hide, but putting himself somewhere where he did nothing else but stand out. 

Then John Watson had appeared, both a Godsend and a bane as far as Mycroft was concerned. He had managed to gain some control over Sherlock's behaviour and patterns, somehow forcing a regular routine of eating, sleeping and work on Sherlock without any objection on the omega's part. Mycroft had been half convinced Sherlock was doing that just to annoy him but he was starting to notice a certain deference in Sherlock, when John insisted on something. Maybe because John was just as unusual as Sherlock it caused a response in the usually intransigent omega. 

The only problem lay in John's behaviour still being so human, and expecting to still fit within the parameters of the human world. It was possible to exist in it, but so many differences meant there was a breach that could not be closed. At least dating might be one that John had learnt would not ever work. 

"I may be wrong," Anthea said, interrupting his out loud rant which didn't require her to do anything, including even bothering to listen. However, Mycroft stopped turning to look at her, for the simple reason that Anthea was never wrong, whatever she had to say was relevant, and he would want to hear it. Not for the first time did he decide she was a perfect match for him, as an omega. Quiet and deferential but also as vicious as a cobra when required. 

"But I believe Sherlock's cycle is due soon." 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. They stopped outside the interrogation room. 

“That could cause a slight change in perspective for both of them,” she said. 

“I rather don’t think it will for Sherlock.” 

Anthea looked at him knowingly. “How many times has Sherlock had his cycle around an alpha, barring yourself?” 

Mycroft smirked. That was, he decided, a very pertinent point.


	9. The Plot thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a cycle, Mycroft has a strop.

Mycroft felt a surge of satisfaction as he entered the cell and the beta wolf, now back in his human form, hunched down. Mycroft calmly eased his suit jacket off his shoulders and then unbuttoned his waistcoat, removing that. 

He made the process slow, almost casual, as he stripped his top half. The beta continued to sink down in the chair, eyes widening as he saw the scars across Mycroft’s skin, evidence of the hard won battles of his ascendency in the pack. Everything about him, his stance, his movement, his scent, exuded menace.

The beta looked fixed in place, not daring to move as he watched Mycroft, eyes locked on the dominant wolf. Despite the clear movements Mycroft made, indicating that violence might be an imminent possibility, he calmly sat on the other chair in the room, staring at the beta wolf, who immediately lowered his gaze to the table top in front of him. 

“It is common practice,” Mycroft said, with deceptive calm. “And even bitten wolves know this, that if you wish to express an interest in a pack omega, then you approach the pack alpha first.” 

The beta said nothing, but had lifted his head slightly, glancing up at Mycroft from under lowered brows. The alpha just eyed him steadily, breathing slowly and picking up the fear lingering in the room. 

“And as that did not happen, it makes me wonder what your intentions were towards Sherlock. But, from the information I have had, part of that was entirely obvious.” 

The beta cringed. “I didn’t touch him.” 

“Your friend did,” Mycroft said smoothly. “And you were rather an accessory to the incident, much to your misfortune.” 

“We didn’t know he had a guardian alpha,” the beta blurted out, looking like he immediately regretted it. Seconds later he most certainly did as Mycroft lunged. He put a hand under the table and pushed upwards, throwing the piece of furniture out of the way. He dived at the subordinate wolf, grabbing him around the throat. The chair fell back and he was dragged to the floor, pinned under the alpha. As he looked up the beta stared into Mycroft’s eyes, which flickered as they changed colour from human to wolf while he battled to keep himself under control; at least for the time being. He wouldn’t get any answers if he shifted. 

The wolf underneath him whined in fear and Mycroft snarled. He lowered his head and the beta tensed, but he tilted his head back, exposing his throat. His head rolled to the side, closing his eyes, expecting the inevitable. Mycroft remained very still, ready to lunge but holding back. He could see the pulse flickering under the skin. The alpha gave another low growl, sniffing the other wolf. Mycroft’s nose wrinkled as he smelt the infection running in the beta’s system. He had received enough medical attention to get him through the interrogation, any further treatment would depend on the outcome of what Mycroft found out. 

“So what did you know?” 

The wolf under him started to shake in panic, eyes staring up at Mycroft fearfully. He had clearly realised that he had talked himself into a hole, the fever and pain probably making him slightly confused, not to mention the scent of a high-ranking alpha male. Mycroft took another deep breath and gave a calming growl. He pulled the beta wolf upwards and then re-positioned him, so he ended up on all fours. Mycroft’s hand ran into the sweat damp hair. It was not something he would normally do but he needed the beta calm, and sensible enough to talk. He felt the wolf’s breathing start to steady and his body relaxed. 

Another moment of tension occurred as the door opened. Anthea stepped through and closed the door behind her. Mycroft loosened his grip on the beta so he could turn and look at her. Anthea didn’t acknowledge either of them, instead she took hold of the back of the chair that Mycroft had vacated, moved it to the corner nearest the door and sat down, settling herself and fiddling with her BlackBerry and behaving as if the scene in front of her didn’t exist. Mycroft settled himself and leaning over sniffed again at the beta wolf, frowning as he did so. 

It had been too hard to tell in the adrenaline fused environment of the clinic, and Sherlock might not have noticed it during his two encounters with the wolves. John would be too inexperienced to be able to tell any difference. But there was something that had been missed. 

The beta whimpered as Mycroft went in closer, burying his face into the scruff of his neck, he also gave a slow swipe with his tongue. It was faint, fading, and smothered by other scents, but the sweet tinge had a babyish rankness, and Mycroft considered the fact there could be another reason it was so faint. 

“Where were you bitten?” Mycroft demanded his tone deep as it rumbled from his chest. 

“My arm,” the beta whimpered tentatively. He moved slightly, lifting it, trying to rise up to pull his sleeve up, clearly realising that following up that question Mycroft would want to examine it. Mycroft had other ideas, he eased the beta face down on the floor, took the relevant arm by the wrist and shoved the sleeve upwards past the elbow. The scar lay in the crook of the elbow and Mycroft gave the pink puckered skin a sniff for good measure. 

The bite had healed, but it was new. Calculating the reactions he decided that this wolf had never encountered an alpha, or a pack leader before. In fact he had probably never encountered anyone but the one that had bitten him. That explained why the scent was so weak, he had been bitten by a bitten wolf. Mycroft snarled his displeasure, behind him Anthea growled soothingly and the beta whimpered. 

From that the tone of the interrogation changed. Mycroft didn't need to threaten, or even coerce. If he asked a question, he would get an answer, it was just asking the right questions to find what he wanted, and it ended up taking less than five minutes. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

John traipsed back from the surgery, after a day of tidying up the mess from the break in. Mycroft hadn’t bothered to sort that out, too much ‘legwork’ John thought savagely. Instead he had made it look like a normal break in, having carefully removed some relevant medicines which could be plausibly taken by a drug user. 

Sarah had spent most of the day avoiding him, while he helped straighten out the waiting room, deal with the incoming patients and getting contractors in to fix the damage. It was only at the end of the day as he sat metaphorically licking his wounds, contemplating the previous day’s events, and mostly Sherlock literally licking his wounds, that she eventually approached him. 

The knock at the door had been tentative and a second later she had opened it, negotiating it carefully as she carried two coffees. John had straightened in his chair as she had closed the door behind her and taken the seat opposite him. 

“I thought you might want a coffee,” she said. 

John gave a slightly wan smile. “Thanks. About last night, well, I’m sorry.” 

“You did rescue me,” Sarah pointed out. John shrugged. 

“Not very well it seems.” 

Sarah sipped her coffee, regarding him steadily. “It was a shock. I hardly expected you to be…” she paused. “When did it happen?” 

“In Afghanistan, it’s why they sent me home.” 

“And Sherlock knew about it?” 

John shrugged. “The person that introduced me to Sherlock was a wolf Sherlock knew.” 

That was the truth. Greg had found him, and he had met Sherlock through that. He couldn't say anything else, since she knew nothing about Sherlock's breeding it was best to keep it that way. It was the only thing keeping Mycroft out of the situation. He did not want anyone else knowing about Sherlock, since he seemed to be in the centre of the situation. John felt a little sorry for the beta wolf, who had been carted off heaven knows where. He couldn't imagine that the werewolf would live for long, having dared to touch Sherlock. Despite the acidic nature of their relationship John got the feeling that both Sherlock and Mycroft deeply resented anyone taking advantage and the familial bond pulled tight the moment either of them came under threat. 

"And he knew when you moved in?" 

John nodded. "It's not something he's inclined to worry about. Despite surface appearance Sherlock's probably the least prejudiced person I know." 

"I think he just holds everyone in equal contempt," Sarah said. 

"It's not quite like that. But he's understanding of my... condition." 

Sarah nodded. "Does that sort of thing happen often?" 

John shook his head. "No, I just got angry when I saw him...." 

Partly because he had recognised the scent, when he had entered and known it had been one of the people attacking Sherlock, trying to rape him. And then because Sarah had been in danger and John had been worried, almost terrified at the thought of the wolf suddenly leaping forward and biting her. He didn't doubt Mycroft's words, that wolves meant to kill when they attacked. Clearly the beta hadn't really intended that when he had broken in, but John's arrival had altered the situation. 

"I'm sorry I..." John started. 

"Look I won't..." Sarah began at the same time. They both paused, looking uncomfortable until John nodded. 

"Go ahead." 

"I just wanted to say that I won't tell anyone, about you. I know how people react and I know you can't pass it on to anyone, not unless you bit them, and I don’t think you would do that." 

"Thank you. I'm sorry you got stuck in the middle of that last night." 

Sarah gave a pained smile. "I mean, I can manage with you working here, with us working together but..." 

John had known what was coming after that 'but', she didn't want to date him anymore. She could cope working with him, but nothing more than that. John felt stung, even though he had expected it, he should have seen it coming a mile off. 

When he had left he had taken his time getting home, picking up some milk on the way, as Sherlock had no doubt forgotten. John could spend a productive evening clearing out the microwave of whatever suspect substance Sherlock had been experimenting on and then collapse into bed. His wounds were aching anyway and a good night's sleep would help solve that. 

As he went up the stairs he was so deep in thought he didn't really pay attention to the change in the air, until he wandered into the living room and frowned at Sherlock. He was wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown and also partly wrapped in the throw from the back of the sofa, shivering quite dramatically as he glared sullenly at the television. He gave John a brief glance and then went back to the television. John took a step forward and almost choked on the pheromones in the air. 

"Are you all right Sherlock?"

"If you have to ask that question then the answer is surely obvious," Sherlock sniped. John frowned moving closer to reach out and place a hand on Sherlock's forehead. His skin was clammy and cold to the touch. 

"You're coming down with something," John said. Sherlock glowered. 

"I'm perfectly healthy, that's the problem." 

"You don't look it. I'll get the thermometer."

"Don't be ridiculous John. Surely you can use your senses to work this one out!" 

John had turned away, but he turned back, looking startled and his eyes widened as he stared at Sherlock. 

"Look I don't know what the matter is, but I've had a hell of a day... Sarah... well she...." John found that he couldn't manage to make a sentence as he thought about his relationship, or lack of it and he found himself feeling suddenly emotional about it. Sherlock's eyes widened. 

"Oh, no, no, no! Don't do that!" Sherlock leapt up, looking panicked by his reaction. John took a breath to steady himself, his lungs filling again with the pheromones in the air. Sherlock had taken a few steps towards him but then had paused, looking like he was trying to calm himself down. He started to shiver even more and he tightened the rug around his body. 

"Sorry," Sherlock said. 

John inhaled, picking up Sherlock's currently powerful scent. 

"What is going on?" 

Sherlock slumped back on the sofa. 

"You may be best to move out, just over the next few days." 

"Why? What have you done to the kitchen?" John asked, turning to look. It didn’t seem any different than it had that morning. 

"Nothing more than was already done to it," Sherlock sighed and then groaned. "If you could excuse me." 

He slowly started to get up, looking uncomfortable. A moment later John found himself sitting on Sherlock, moving his hips steadily against Sherlock's groin. The omega lay pliant underneath him but his eyes really didn't match. 

"What am I doing?" John asked slowly getting up. Sherlock looked down at the stain on his pyjama bottoms. John inhaled deeply as he watched Sherlock's hips jerk and the stain increase. Sherlock said nothing, he got up and fled to the bathroom, shed his pyjama bottoms and ejaculated into the toilet. John followed him partly concerned, partly because the smell was too nice to ignore. 

"I apologise," Sherlock said. "I appear to have entered my cycle. Feel free to move out for the next few days." 

He finished spurting into the toilet and went back to shivering. John went and found a blanket, wrapping Sherlock up in it and he hoisted him up from his position on the bathroom floor and walked him to his bedroom. 

"What cycle? What is going on? Why are you so cold? That can't be good for you." 

"I will be fine." 

"Get into bed, it will be warmer than sitting on the sofa." 

Sherlock crawled under the covers, obeying the command as his teeth started to chatter. John sat at the end of the bed, still feeling disturbed, but for some reason, every time he inhaled and took in Sherlock's scent he felt better. 

"How often does this happen?" 

"Six months or so," Sherlock said, his chattering teeth calming down. "I suppress it as best I can but in the end my body gets the better of me." 

Sherlock sounded disgusted with himself. John nodded and got up, disappearing out of the bedroom. Sherlock rolled over, watching him go, feeling a little confused. He heard John moving around the flat and then Sherlock rolled again so he had his back to the door as John's footsteps padded back towards the bedroom. Sherlock tried to pretend he wasn't interested until he felt something put down on the end of the bed. He shifted onto his back, glaring at John as he sifted through his medical kit. 

"I'm not ill." 

"All the same, I'd like to know the symptoms, if I need to deal with anything." With that he lifted Sherlock's lank curls off his forehead and pressed the thermometer strip down on it. Sherlock growled. 

"Don't start," John said. "Is it normal to happen every six months?" 

"It is for me, each omega varies," Sherlock said. 

"And you're suppressing it. Or at least..." 

"I'm not giving off enough of a signal to attract an alpha, at least I didn't think I was until you sat on me. Mycroft clearly has better self-control." 

John so didn’t want Mycroft mentioning in that context. "Sorry," John said. 

"But you will react, you did when you became emotional earlier." 

"And ejaculating like you did a few minutes ago is normal?" 

"Yes, John, it is," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "I'll no doubt have two or three more episodes of that before I'm done." 

John lifted the thermometer off Sherlock's forehead and examined it. 

"It's not that far off normal. You're probably best to stay in bed though, if you feel cold."

"Thank you Doctor," Sherlock grizzled. 

"Here," John shifted a pile of towels had brought closer to Sherlock's side. "For when you... well..." 

Sherlock huffed. "I'm sure I'll manage, I have every other time." 

John watched him as Sherlock settled down again, clearly still shivering under the duvet. He had tucked himself up as best he could. John mused for a moment before making a decision. It took Sherlock by surprise as he lifted the sheet and slid underneath. 

“What are you doing?!” 

“Body heat is probably the best way to keep you warm,” John said. “I’m fully clothed, and as soon as you have stopped shivering I’ll get out.” 

Sherlock huffed but didn’t rebuff him as John wriggled close to him, Sherlock rolled onto his side so John could snuggle up to his back. The omega gave an exaggerated sigh as he felt John’s nose press against the back of his neck. 

“You smell nice,” John commented. 

“I’m an omega in cycle, of course I do.” 

“Are you usually alone when it happens?” 

“I try to be,” Sherlock said with such an edge to his tone that John blinked in surprise. He debated asking further and then decided the subject was currently a little too provocative. 

“I’ll clean the microwave later,” he said instead, there was a pause, and John enjoyed Sherlock’s scent for a few seconds before Sherlock answered. 

“I think I broke it. John?” 

“What?” John asked, wondering what other damage Sherlock might have caused while he had been out. 

“Thank you.” 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Anthea followed Mycroft as he left the room. They shut the door on the beta sat quietly in the corner of the room. 

"We'll need him out of sight, preferably out of London." 

Anthea didn't look up from her BlackBerry as she said. 

"The Taylors are in Norfolk."

Mycroft gave a non-committal murmur and shrugged. 

"Very well, it's as good a place as any. Although inform them and the guards that any resistance can be met with termination."

Anthea looked up, raising her eyebrows. Mycroft inclined his head towards the door. 

"He's been useful, but not that useful." 

He turned away from her, and she stepped back as the two guards stepped forward and entered the room. Anthea waited by the door while Mycroft walked away, pulling his phone from his pocket. 

"Sherlock's sleeping," John said when he answered his phone. Mycroft sighed. "I'll pass on whatever you want to tell him when he's awake. He's had a long night." 

Mycroft said nothing for a moment and then went onto the subject in hand. He had rung John’s mobile after all, since he knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer. And no doubt Sherlock would pass on the information anyway, so it didn’t matter which way it flowed. 

"It's a simple question," Mycroft said. "Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you?"


	10. Working Through The Issue

"You think he might be a wolf?" John asked looking from Sherlock to Lestrade. They had decided a conference was in order, in light of Mycroft's information, two days after he had phoned, when Sherlock’s cycle had settled. Sherlock shrugged. 

“Possibly, but we know that he knows I am. Those two betas could have only been on my tail for that reason,” Sherlock said.

“And he knows you are an omega.” 

“I presume so. Or at least if he didn’t before, he does now,” Sherlock said, he glared at Lestrade again as the policeman looked from him to John again, also breathing in occasionally. He hadn’t spoken out loud but Sherlock could read his reactions, he knew something had gone on, and Sherlock knew he still gave off enough scent to hint it was around his cycle. The other thing that Lestrade couldn't miss was John carrying a heavy trace of that scent, and Sherlock carrying John's alpha scent. It wouldn't be unusual considering the time they spent together, and the fact they lived in the same flat. They were bound to pass pheromone traces to each other, but it had become too strong to be as simple as that. 

He hadn't actually said anything yet, and if John was aware of the scrutiny he gave no indication. Sherlock didn't think John was that oblivious to his surroundings. 

"But they didn't know I had a guardian alpha," Sherlock said. 

"And were they meant to be acting as they did?" Lestrade said. "This Moriarty has come up in several of the cases you investigated. There is a chance the link occurred there and the wolf connection is a sideline. We don't know enough about this man to make a judgement. At the moment all he appears to be doing is having you watched, not very well, or subtly." 

"Or is that a warning?" John asked. 

"Or is he trying to get your attention?" Lestrade said. 

Sherlock frowned. "He has it. But to what end?" 

"If he's a wolf he may consider you a prize," Lestrade said. 

Sherlock snorted. 

"How many male omegas are there that you know of?" John asked. "If Mycroft knows I'm the only bitten alpha he has to be keeping track of male omegas." 

"As far as is known four spread across the American continents and two out east. There was a rumour that an Irish pack had one but Mycroft never managed to confirm that."

"But he knows there are four in America?" John said. 

"The CIA have good surveillance," Sherlock mused. "However, I would say the total cannot reach double figures."

"So, you've had alphas interested in you before?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Twice, neither option was appealing." 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "But you don't have an issue with John." 

Both of them turned to stare at him. Greg leant back in the chair and opened his mouth, then had the sense to close it again. 

"John is a bitten wolf," Sherlock snarled.

"But he is an alpha." 

"Leave it alone," John advised him. He didn't entirely understand it. The more he learnt the more he actually wondered why Sherlock went anywhere near him. "Let's just stick to the issue." 

"Tea?" Mrs Hudson announced appearing with a tray. 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," John said, getting up to help her with her burden. Sherlock got up and started to pace about, he stared out of the window, down into Baker Street before walking across the room. Mrs Hudson concentrated on pouring out the tea and trying to foist biscuits on them.

"I ate on Tuesday," Sherlock announced dismissively. John, who had helped himself to four biscuits looked at him disapprovingly. 

"Sherlock." 

John tone had lowered, not to a growl, but his voice rumbled slightly, in what was, Lestrade thought, most definitely a warning. Much to his surprise Sherlock gave a dramatic huff but conceded to tuck a biscuit onto his saucer. Whether or not he would actually eat it remained to be seen but the fact John had easily done that made Lestrade look from one to the other again, trying to work out what had gone on. 

"So, someone who has an interest in a male omega?" Lestrade questioned. 

"Or he knows that Sherlock is an omega, and is using that fact to get to him?" John prompted. "This Moriarty is a known element in the criminal world, and we have clashed with people who are in contact with him. That is more likely, than him using that to get Sherlock's attention." 

"Quite possibly," Sherlock said. 

"Oh, have you got any milk?" Mrs Hudson said. She bustled off to the kitchen and John turned in his chair. 

"No, you might not want to..." 

"Oh Sherlock!" she yelped at the sight of a head in the fridge. She slammed the door shut again. 

"It's an experiment," Sherlock said, pacing up and down in front of the windows. 

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, I am trying to stop him doing that," John said. Lestrade shook his head in despair and amusement. Sherlock stopped pacing, turning on his heel to face the room. 

"Well, the conclusion is..." 

Sherlock's conclusion, didn't get concluded; that was the moment a shattering explosion rocked the building and the windows shattered inwards in a shower of glass. John's first instinct caused him to roll off the chair, putting his back to the windows. His second was to lift his head, his over-sensitive ears pounding from the blast. He slowly looked around, blinking to steady his vision, wincing at the dust floating in the air and trying not to breath it in. 

His instincts guided him as he looked around, locating Lestrade first, sprawled on the ground, chair tipped over by the force of the blast. He was moving, looking just as stunned as John felt. But if he was moving then he was relatively unscathed. As their eyes met John pointed in the direction of the kitchen, which had been Mrs Hudson's location at the time of the blast. Lestrade gave something that John managed to interpret as a nod and he started crawling lithely into the kitchen. It gave John a moment's surprise. He knew Greg was a wolf, but he tended to keep any traits carefully under control, even around Sherlock. 

John gave a frown and started to look around. In the swirl of dust he caught movement close by the window. Shaking his head again, which did nothing to help, John staggered to his feet to get to Sherlock. He winced at the glass on and around him, fragments sliding off his clothes as he moved, and crunching under his boots. He watched Sherlock flinch and caught the scent of blood as he put his hand onto the broken glass. 

"Sherlock?" his voice sounded muffled to his own ears. He wobbled as he crossed the room, almost falling but managing to stay upright. Sherlock looked up, blinking, his eyes changed from their usual light colour to wolf and he allowed John to pull him onto his feet. He turned and looked outside. A chorus of car alarms bleeped outside and they stared across the road locating where the explosion had come from. John only looked for a moment before turning his attention to Sherlock's cut hand. He glimpsed it for a moment before Sherlock withdrew the hand and staggered to the door. 

"Sherlock!" 

John followed him, both of them staggering as they went down the stairs and out the front door. Most of the windows in the immediate vicinity had shattered and the ground floor of the building opposite had exploded. Sherlock ran towards it, John on his tail. The sound of sirens becoming louder as they looked around the devastation. 

"Sherlock?!" 

He turned, following John's gaze to see the body lying nearby. They both closed in on it, carefully leaning over to examine it. Reaching out Sherlock turned it, frowning as he realised, somehow, the body appeared undamaged by the blast. He didn't recognise the body but as he leant in and inhaled, he recognised one thing about it. Looking up he met John's gaze. 

"Beta." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Molly frowned as she watched Sherlock lean over the body, putting his nose close to the corpse' neck, he spent several seconds sniffing intently. 

"It's definitely the right scent," he told Lestrade. 

"The one that was stalking you." 

"I'd hardly say stalking. I had two run ins with him. And the one John had with his partner at the clinic was nothing more than coincidence." 

"Do you really believe in that?" John said. 

"On that occasion yes," Sherlock said. "How could he have known that you were going to turn up to take Sarah on a date?" 

"How's that going?" Lestrade asked. 

"Fine," John said, defensively. "We're being very professional." 

"I fail to see how a woman who can forgive you for nearly getting her killed by Chinese gangsters can have such a problem with you being infected with physical lycanthropy." 

"She doesn't have a problem with it Sherlock, she just doesn't wish to date me." 

"And how is that not having a problem with you?" Sherlock asked. John glared at him. 

"Can you just leave it? Thank you." 

Sherlock went back to looking at the corpse, he stared intently and then looked up and around, sniffing the air.

"This body was clearly not in the blast," Lestrade said. 

"Yet it was left there," Sherlock mused, still sniffing. He turned and looked at Molly. 

"There is no obvious sign of death, other than this," she said eagerly, stepping forward and peeling back the right eyelid. "Puncture mark. Toxicology will be getting back soon with the result. I think he was poisoned." 

Sherlock very slowly crouched down, peering into the corpses' left ear. He very carefully inserted a swab, rummaging for a moment before easing the swab out and staring at the result. He also took another sniff. 

"A little more than that, I think."

"What?" Lestrade said. "Is that blood? There was no sign of head trauma?" 

"No," Molly said, she eyed Sherlock curiously as he gave another irritated sounding sniff, he glared at the corpse and then looked around. Then he whirled back to stare at the other three. 

"Not outwardly no. If you look at that," he held out the swab to Molly. "You'll probably find cerebrospinal fluid as well as blood."

"Which means what?" Lestrade asked. 

"I believe he was somehow induced into wolf fever to it's fatal point." 

"That's impossible isn't it?" Molly said. 

"What's wolf fever?" John asked. All three of them looked at him. Molly and Lestrade with confusion. Sherlock didn't look surprised at John's ignorance. 

"A sign that a case of lupine infection has reached the brain. It causes the first change. If the person in question is in hospital the reaction is to try and prevent it and control the symptoms, which stops the brain from sending the signal to cause the shift. That is usually what causes an infected human's death. Their brain ruptures because it cannot act on what it needs to do, converting the body. Obviously you were not prevented from doing so."

"No, although I nearly got a rupture from a bullet in the head from a very nervous soldier." 

Sherlock didn't respond to that. He moved around the examination table sniffing again, frowning and wrinkling his nose in displeasure. 

"Can anyone else smell that?" 

"What?" John asked. 

"Wolf." 

"Sherlock, there are three of us here. Four if you count our dead friend," Lestrade said.

"No there's something else. Has anyone else been down here?" 

Molly shook her head. "No just me, and my boyfriend." 

Sherlock shrugged, Molly looked slightly chagrined at the lack of response as Sherlock went back to staring at the corpse. 

"There's not much else we can do Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Until we have finished examining the site and seeing what else might come up. I'll let you know. I'd better get to work."

John and Molly both said goodbye, Sherlock didn't seem to realise he had gone. He paced around the body, sniffed the air a little and generally looked disgruntled with the whole affair. 

"Look if there's nothing to do here, then we could look into that case Mycroft mentioned this morning," John suggested. Sherlock huffed again.

"I'm busy," Sherlock said. He turned to look at Molly. "I want to run some tests on him. No one else is going to know what I am looking for. You can deal with Mycroft if you like," he added to John. 

"I might just do that." At the same time his phone beeped. John scrabbled into his pocket and added. "Although it might have been nice if Mycroft had just shown up to see how you were." 

"He did that," Sherlock said. "Scalpel," he added to Molly, who looked a little flustered. John read his text and said. 

"Well I'll have to do it later. Sarah's asked if I can work this morning, I have to get to the clinic." 

"Fine," Sherlock said in that distracted tone he used when he wasn't really interested in anything other than what had his interest. John shrugged, gave Molly a sympathetic look and then headed out.


	11. The Game

Sarah heard the strident voice arguing with the receptionist. Taking a deep breath she turned and walked out to the reception. Sherlock looked up and glared at her. She had only seen him once since her decision to break off her budding romance with John, and had found herself swamped with disapproval.

"What's going on?" she asked. 

"I'm trying to explain to this gentleman that Dr Watson is not in today," the harassed looking receptionist said. 

"He received a text this morning from you asking for him to come in." Again Sherlock's disapproval hit Sarah like a tidal wave. She straightened her back and glared at him. 

"He's not here," Sarah said. "I didn't ask him to come in. He's not due to work now until Thursday. I never sent him a text." 

Sherlock frowned, looking around, eyes drifting around the surgery. 

"I caught his scent on the way in." 

Sarah frowned as Sherlock lifted his head slightly and sniffed. He stalked back towards the surgery entrance, still looking around and sniffing occasionally. She followed him as he reached the hallway and he sniffed again, clearly tracking. Watching him in shock she stared as he started to rummage through the coat rack, still following a scent until he yanked John's coat from the end hook. He put the material to his nose, just to make completely sure. 

"It's John's." 

"But he's not here." 

"His coat is," Sherlock snarled, starting to rummage through the pockets. "You said you haven't seen him?" 

"No, not since his shift on Wednesday. He let me know he couldn't work the rest of the week, he had something to deal with." 

Sherlock gave her a sharp look, which also, to her, seemed to hold some embarrassment. Sarah took a breath. 

"Look I know you aren't happy with me breaking things off with John, but it was a shock, seeing him and it's not as if I have anything against him." 

"You do not, but not only are humans highly wary of interacting with wolves, you also saw him change in front of you when his emotions were running high and his instinct was to protect you from a potential threat. It is not unreasonable to think, from your point of view, that if you have an argument which becomes heated that something such as that might occur. But the occurrences of hurting a loved one are very rare, the scent is far too ingrained in the subconscious for such a thing to happen." 

Sarah blinked as Sherlock talked and then extracted John's phone from his coat pocket. Sherlock frowned at the object, turning it over in his hands and then activating the screen. Sarah shuffled sideways to see what had his attention. The screen announced there were several new messages. Sherlock opened the messages up, scrolling through the ones he had sent to find one from a new contact simply labelled 'JM'. He hesitated a moment before opening it up. 

'Lost something?' the text asked politely. 

"What does that mean? What has John lost?" 

"Nothing, the message is for me," Sherlock said grimly. 

"And you've lost..."

"John. I've lost John." 

"Oh my God," Sarah said. "Shall we call the police?" 

"Probably not the best immediate idea," Sherlock said. Instead he typed a short text. 

'What do you want? – SH’

There was no point in asking where John was. He would not be told that. If they knew he was a wolf then removing his guardian alpha meant it would be easier to get to him. But Sherlock didn’t think the situation was as simple as that. If they merely wanted to remove an obstacle to get to him why bother setting up a trail for him to follow. Moriarty wanted him to know he had John. He waited tensely for an answer, one hand clutching the phone, the other clung onto John’s coat. In the pause Sherlock put the material to his nose again breathing in John’s scent. He wore the coat so often it was deeply impregnated with the alpha’s scent. 

Sarah leant in as the phone screen flashed with an answer. 

‘Play the game – JM’

Sherlock gritted his teeth and growled, causing Sarah to lean back slightly, staring at him with wide eyes as she realised the fact she had, until now, completely missed. 

‘How do I know he’s all right? – SH’

As he typed the text his own phone rang. Sherlock scrabbled to pull it out of his pocket without putting anything else down. To help him out Sarah took John’s phone off him to allow him to get to his own. 

“Hello?” Sherlock snapped. “Lestrade? There’s a what?” 

“We found a package, with your name on it, at the bomb site. I’ve got it now, so I presume you will want to see it.” 

“Yes, I’ll…” Sherlock paused as Sarah gave a gasp. She looked up at him in horror and then turned the phone so he could see the screen. Sherlock growled again at the photograph he had been sent. John bound to a chair, also gagged and looking very groggy. Sherlock snatched the phone and stared hard at the image, just making out the blood staining John’s hair, where he had obviously been knocked out.

The phone then beeped again, signalling another message. 

'I think your pet DI has something for you. Be a good boy and fetch - JM'

Sherlock snarled again roughly stuffing John's phone into his pocket with his own. 

"What are you going to do?" Sarah asked. 

"Get John back." 

"Do you need any help?" Sarah asked. Sherlock had almost whirled away but he spun back to stare at her in surprise. 

"If you need anything," she added. "I don't want anything to happen to him." 

Sherlock gave her a steady look, the disdainful expression disappearing. 

"No. For no other reason that John will not thank me for dragging you into this. The best way you can help, is stay very clear of the situation." 

Sherlock turned again, running across the car park. He had to get to Scotland Yard, he had to get Lestrade's help and he had to get John back. He just had to.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Sally watched the exchange occurring in her boss' office, she knew the subject matter by the level of noise, for the moment they were ominously quiet. She had learnt the difference. If Sherlock was being annoying over a case Lestrade had no qualms about yelling at him. When they were quiet, keeping their voices low so the words couldn't be heard, it was something to do with the pack. But their gestures told her the exchange was heated. 

"No, Sherlock! This is a situation when we need Mycroft!" 

"I don't!" 

"Your guardian alpha has been kidnapped, that leaves you without protection." 

"There's you." 

Lestrade looked stunned for a moment, and then he backed up, shaking his head and raising his hands. 

"Oh, no, Sherlock." 

"Why not? Whatever this is about," he paused, holding up the pink phone that had been in the package. "This is linked. Whatever game he is playing I have to see it though, he's using John for that." 

Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. "As much as I like John, and I would not want anything to happen to him, if Mycroft finds out; when Mycroft finds out, if I haven't told him he will tear me to pieces." 

"No he won't," Sherlock said pacing up and down, staring at the screen of the phone, willing it to do something. "You're far too useful to him." 

Lestrade gritted his teeth. He supposed that point was true. 

"So I'll just wish he's tearing me to pieces." 

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at him. "You know what he will do if he thinks I am in danger. Or thinks that I need saving from my own impulses."

Lestrade nodded slowly, clenching his jaw. Sherlock was never above emotional blackmail and he knew Lestrade hadn't liked the last time Mycroft had ordered drastic measures to contain his younger brother. The fact that Sherlock had been so drugged up Lestrade and the other betas sent to retrieve him had been given no choice but to use extreme force still didn't make it sit any easier in Lestrade's mind. In fact years on from that night he still thought that the reason Mycroft had ordered him to assist was because he could be sure that Lestrade would not take the force too far. 

"Sherlock, that's not fair. And you're playing into Moriarty's hands."

"What else can I do?" 

It caused Lestrade to frown. He felt very conscious of the others outside, especially Sally who would know what the conversation related to. Her eyes followed Sherlock as he paced up and down, the contempt in her gaze obvious. A long while ago she had stopped calling Sherlock a freak in front of him, knowing that it might imply something about her boss. She didn't think Sherlock was a freak because of his omega status, it was his mind, his behaviour, that bothered her. But the insult didn’t make that immediately obvious and she didn't want Greg thinking that she perhaps thought the same of him, because she didn't. 

Despite the fact he didn't like what she thought of Sherlock, he did appreciate the loyalty she had for him. All of his team had stood by him after he had been bitten, and accepted the subsequent changes it had forced onto his life. But he remained very aware that one reason, probably the main reason, he had held onto his position in the police force was that Mycroft found it useful. Not only for keeping an eye on Sherlock's activities but also as an eye on the streets of London, which remained the focal point of Mycroft's domain. 

If he did do as Sherlock asked, and helped him find John, and he kept Sherlock safe, then there was no doubt that even if the alpha was furious, Sherlock could easily placate him. He could manipulate the situation to do so, if he played the submissive omega. On the other hand, if anything happened to Sherlock, then that buffer would not be there and Mycroft probably wouldn't think twice about slitting Lestrade's throat. 

Lestrade gave an uncomfortable swallow at the thought. He didn't owe Sherlock that much, but he watched the omega pace up and down, trying to work out how to handle the situation he was in, he paused and wondered. Lestrade knew he owed allegiances and he was loyal to them, but he had never seen such a thing in Sherlock, until now. 

Something had gone on between the pair and somehow Sherlock's reaction displayed a level of loyalty Lestrade thought the omega completely incapable of. He would do anything to retrieve his guardian alpha. Sherlock could be considered capable of anything, his personality gave that impression, now Lestrade believed that fact to be true. 

He took a deep breath. 

"So, what do we do?" 

Almost as if it heard the question the pink phone vibrated into life.


	12. Possession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this, but there is more fun in dealing with the implications in the aftermath.

Sherlock didn’t know if there was any logic to it, his request to meet at the swimming pool where things seemed to have started. He had managed to persuade Lestrade to stay out of this part of the situation. Sherlock had retrieved John’s gun from the flat from another of what John considered to be a secure hiding place. 

He walked into the main pool area, senses on alert, although he picked up nothing but chemicals as he entered. The weight of the gun felt reassuringly heavy, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. In theory he could have used his teeth and claws, shifting if he had to but he didn't intend on getting that close. He wanted John back and would kill if required, but cleanly, keeping any trace of his wolf out of it. 

Looking up he saw nothing on the balcony above him. Not that he expected to. What he needed was some trace of John. Sherlock inhaled again, hoping to pick up something, again the chemicals just assaulted his nostrils. Although, if it hampered his senses, then it would do the same to any other wolves, if they were in the vicinity. 

"Hello?"

He called out, waiting for a response. He had played Moriarty's game, and each time he had worked out the answer he had been sent another picture of John. As far as Sherlock knew he was still alive and well, beyond that he couldn't make any sort of assumptions. He paused by the side of the pool as he heard scuffling movement from the changing rooms to his left, and Sherlock sighed in relief as John stepped out. Despite looking shaky on his feet, he seemed intact, wrapped up in a coat that Sherlock didn't recognise. 

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock asked. He took another step forward and then paused. 

"You did well Sherlock. I can understand your desire to get your little pet back." 

John's words came out stilted, clearly reciting what he was told, like the other victims in the game. Sherlock frowned, nodding at John. The alpha nodded back in one short gesture to tell Sherlock he was fine. But something wasn't right. 

"Where is he?" he asked John. 

The alpha gave an uncomfortable shrug, looking around warily. John didn't know, Sherlock had no idea how long he had been standing there. He watched John wince, and he spoke again, his voice tensing, eyes filled with confusion and worry. 

"He's got some stamina, and he's strong. No wonder you like him so much Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, he did not like the way this one sided conversation appeared to be going. "John?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't know what..." John stopped talking, wincing again. Clearly those were his words and not what he was being told to say. John went back to the script. 

"He still needs some training though, a few of the betas had to put him through his paces first." 

By the look on John's face, he didn't entirely comprehend what he was saying, and what had happened to him. Which made Sherlock even more convinced about what had happened. John shifted uncomfortably, which opened the coat he was wearing. Sherlock frowned as he saw the explosives strapped to John's chest and his breath hitched at the red dot of a laser sight on his chest. John carried on talking. 

"What else can I tell you about it? How eager he was? He was instantly hard the moment he...." 

"Enough!" Sherlock snarled cutting off the stilted words. John looked worried but Sherlock wondered if that was because he didn't remember what he was talking about, although there was probably some physical evidence on him somewhere. Sherlock eased closer, eyes locked on the explosives strapped to John's chest and he inhaled deeply. He winced at the harsh smell of chlorine, but the other scents were coming through. 

John's scent was laden with hormones and sweat, not only his own but another's, one that Sherlock found unmistakeable, so similar to his own. The sweetness of omega clashing with male. It was sickly sweet, causing Sherlock to swallow heavily as his mind instinctively informed him of the implications of that.

The omega was in heat and John... Sherlock growled in anger. He had been put into rut. The omega hadn't bothered to control himself, which would have sent John into a frenzy. One perfect way, Sherlock surmised, to distract and contain an alpha, at a point when they were at their most vulnerable. John had coped with Sherlock's heat but Sherlock suppressed his with an energy that had exhausted him. And still John had reacted to him, and wanted to be near him. Sherlock had been careful throughout those days, and although the physical contact had been limited to sharing the same bed it had created an intimacy Sherlock was unprepared for and overwhelmed by now. 

He was angry, and jealous. John was his, and meant to be his alone. This other omega had dared to encroach on his territory. Sherlock's breath rumbled in his chest, rising up as an angry, challenging growl. John looked startled but responded, almost stepping forward. He only halted as the weight of the bomb shifted and he looked down, seeing the red laser sight in the centre of his chest.

Sherlock reached for the gun he carried, feeling slightly irrational as a shadow moved at the far end of the room. John's head turned slightly, trying to follow Sherlock's focus. Sherlock gave a low growl, he didn't want John's attention shifting off him. The sound brought John's gaze back again. Sherlock kept his eyes on the movement, but growled softly at John. The last thing he needed was John's hormones getting the better of him again.

"Just focus on keeping calm."

John nodded, wincing at the soft laugh that echoed from the end of the room. Sherlock pulled the gun, aiming it in the general direction. 

"I don't think you want to do that," a voice announced, presumably Moriarty's voice. "I thought you might have gone for the full on challenge." 

Sherlock took a deep breath, keeping the gun raised as the figure moved into the light. He looked the omega up and down, smirking slightly and straightening his back. 

"Not exactly my style," Sherlock announced smoothly. 

"No," Moriarty drawled. "The omega runt taken in by your big brother. I wonder how the rest of them feel, having to play second fiddle to a male." 

Sherlock tilted his head, the smirk spreading across his face. 

"I'm guessing you don't rate to high in the hierarchy." 

He watched the shadow flicker across Moriarty's face. Sherlock knew he had hit a nerve. The face composed itself again, walking forward casually. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed but out of the corner of his eye he looked at the bomb on John’s chest. He had to concede the rival omega had a right to be confident. If Sherlock attacked, John got shot, and no doubt the bomb would atomise them all anyway. For the moment they were at an impasse. It led Sherlock to the conclusion that Moriarty intended nothing more than a verbal confrontation. Played correctly all three of them would walk away from this alive. 

Sherlock processed the information in his mind but kept the gun raised and locked on his opponent. Several parts of his brain were informing him he had every right to retaliate over a territory breach. The instinctive knowledge, so much of which he tried to bury deep away in his brain, nearly scrambled his logic. As Moriarty moved closer Sherlock just wanted to drop the gun and leap at him, he could feel the flickers on the corner of his eyes as his vision shifted. Staring at him Moriarty could see the same, finding the reaction, however subtle, amusing. 

“And what would I need with a pack. I have an empire.” 

Sherlock snarled as the pieces fell into place. “Dear Jim, please could you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister. Dear Jim, please could you fix it for me to disappear to South America.”

“Just so.”

“A consulting criminal; with an empire of subordinates.”

“They have their uses, so desperate to please.”  
“Like the two that attacked Sherlock?” John asked. “Don’t have much control over them do you.” 

Moriarty turned on him, growling. John’s eyes widened, taking a sharp breath. John’s eyes didn’t turn wolf, but as he inched forward Sherlock saw them dilate. Seeing the sudden reaction he didn’t prevent the jealous rumble that came out of his torso. It brought John’s attention back to him. Moriarty smirked, he stepped past John, brushing close to him. John closed his eyes and tried not to breathe in as the omega’s pheromones lingered in the air like an unspoken invitation. 

“They were a little zealous. Although,” Moriarty grinned in delight. “I never realised big brother had given you your own guardian alpha.” 

“You didn’t get one yourself then?” Sherlock asked politely. John frowned at him. Sherlock gave no indication he had seen the look. Moriarty lacked one piece of information, that John was bitten. His reactions had been as an alpha should have been, going into rut as he had scented the heat, and clearly Moriarty had been given information about the encounters. The betas hadn’t know John was bitten, neither did Moriarty. Sherlock had no intention of enlightening him. It would just interest the man all the more. 

Moriarty glowered at the question. 

“You probably weren’t considered the effort,” Sherlock drawled. “The pack didn’t want you, and got rid of you the moment that was possible.” 

“Like yours want you. You only survived because of your big bad alpha brother.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Probably trying to argue that point was pointless. Moriarty knew the workings of the wolf packs. They would care for their wolves, up to a point, but if they could fend for themselves, they were sent to do so, if they weren’t wanted in proximity.

“And that’s your justification,” Sherlock asked. “You were bullied, so people died.” 

“That’s what people do!” Moriarty shouted. Sherlock gritted his teeth as John took that moment to pounce, momentarily ignored, almost forgotten by the pair of them, despite the fact he was actually, indirectly, being argued over. Lunging forward he grabbed Moriarty. John tried not to breath too heavily as he held onto the omega. 

“Sherlock run!” 

Moriarty seemed quite delighted by the turn of events. He certainly didn't look worried about the fact if his sniper shot, he would die with John, even when John pointed that out. By that point Sherlock worked out there was more than one sniper in position and John stepped back the moment Sherlock came under threat and they simply went back to the stalemate. 

"Oh, how very devoted he is," Moriarty laughed. John looked chagrined at the whole affair. Sherlock went back to pointing the gun, not that it did much good. 

"I don't think you came all this way to discuss the virtues of my guardian alpha," Sherlock said. 

"I've shown you just a little taste of what I've got going on. You can't even begin to comprehend how far my reach goes." His eyes slide over to regard John. "Of what I can control. It's been fun, our little game, but you're beginning to get in my way, so this is just a friendly warning."

"You'll forgive me if I don't heed it." 

"No, I won't. You're getting in my way, and if you don't stop, then I will have to stop you myself." 

Sherlock didn't speak, he just stared at Moriarty and gave another growl. Moriarty huffed and rolled his eyes. When they locked back on Sherlock they had shifted. The feral eyes stared at him as Moriarty's face twisted in anger. 

"If you don't stop, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." He gave a sidelong glance at John, who watched the interaction warily. "I haven't found it difficult so far."

Sherlock snarled. Moriarty shrugged and turned on his heel, walking out with nothing more than a casual wave. John looked baffled. Sherlock stepped forward, still holding the gun. 

"Catch you later." 

"No you won't!" 

Sherlock paused a moment before dropping the gun and kneeling down started to pull at John's coat and concentrated on unfastening the explosive vest underneath. 

"Are you all right?" 

John just gasped, recoiling backwards at his sudden movements. 

"John?" He snapped as he stood up and started to yank the clothing off his shoulders, almost pulling John over with the force of his movements. Sherlock threw the vest away. John wobbled on his feet as Sherlock grabbed the gun and went after Moriarty. He didn't go far, there didn't seem much point, instead he went back to John, crouching down, forgetting he had the gun in his hand he grappled for him, pushing his nose into John's hair, and then moving lower to bury his face in the crook of his neck. John gave a jump, trying to fend Sherlock off, but it wasn't strong enough to actually move him. Sherlock sniffed down John's left arm, grabbing his wrist and pulling up his shirt sleeve to check him. 

"Sherlock, I'm fine. I think. Careful what you are doing with that thing!" he shouted as Sherlock continued to grapple and still keep the gun in his hand. John tried to wrest it from him, and failed as Sherlock moved swiftly, refusing to give it to him. 

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked still sniffed him up and down, as if to make sure. 

"I think so. It all got a bit blurry." John paused rolling his neck and grimacing. "I feel like I've been in a boxing ring, although..." 

"You realise he was in heat?" Sherlock asked tentatively. 

"I remember the smell, similar to you the other week," John said, rubbing his forehead. 

"Moriarty didn't control it, or didn't suppress it, as I did. You remember you had some moments you didn't have control of yourself with me." 

"I remember sitting on you, when you were on the sofa and then you... oh." 

"There was more than that, although I had control of the situation. Moriarty did as well, just differently." 

"What did he mean by putting me though my paces, with the betas?" John asked warily. 

"That was probably a fight. A heat affects dominant wolves, making them a little... rambunctious." 

"Why do I get the feeling that's a very gentle euphemism?" 

"Because it is," Sherlock said, then he turned in his crouched position, raising the gun again, as he heard the sound of a door banging. 

"Sherlock?" John said warily as he looked down and saw several red dots start to appear on the pair of them. Sherlock snarled again as Moriarty's voice floated back towards them.

He raised the gun and waited, giving a low growl. Close to him he felt John move, his body tensing ready and he answer the growl with one of his own, ready to follow whatever instruction Sherlock gave him.


	13. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys get physical again, and Sherlock almost marks his territory.

John rubbed his hair with a towel as he left the bathroom. There were still traces of Moriarty’s scent on him, but he guessed it would fade over time. For now it was just mildly disconcerting. John had almost no memory of the last few days, he remembered almost reaching the surgery and then catching the scent which had distracted him. Then the other wolves had been on him before he knew what was happening. 

The rest of it had been a violent blur with nothing more than brief moments of clarity. Those were glimpses he didn’t really care to remember. He had senses and flickers of skin, and fur, and the smell of hormones. Then after that the blurs occurred again. He slipped on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and examined the bruises and scratches on his torso and arms. Staring at his reflection his mind ran over the injuries, assessing each one in a clinical fashion, as if the person in the mirror was nothing more than a stranger entering the consultation room at the surgery. 

“John?!” Sherlock’s voice rang through the flat. John hadn’t bothered to shut the door, never mind lock it. Sherlock this time seemed to be respecting his personal space. He turned away from his reflection and almost pulled on a sweatshirt, then as the cuts on his shoulder pulled when he lifted his arm he decided to leave it. He strolled through to the kitchen to locate Sherlock, who had his full concentration focused on making tea. 

He turned to glance at John, eyes narrowing as he looked at the damage. 

“It’s all minor,” John said eyeing the scratches on his arms. Sherlock didn’t look entirely convinced. He went back to making the tea, staring at the milk suspiciously. 

“I think this might be off.” 

Considering it moved as a solid lump as Sherlock tilted the bottle John felt inclined to agree. 

“I don’t suppose we can bother Mrs Hudson,” he said. 

“Probably not prudent given the hour and your injuries, it may upset her on both counts.” 

John nodded. “I suppose we can manage without milk. I’m hungry, I did buy some bread, if that’s a bit stale I suppose I can toast it. Do you want anything?” 

“Not hungry,” Sherlock announced extracting tea bags from mugs. 

“Have you eaten anything over the last few days? How many days?” 

“Three, almost four, and no, not much.” 

“Then you need something, Sherlock, oh…” John looked at the mouldy bread. “We’d better do some shopping tomorrow. We’ve got that leaflet for that all night take out place somewhere.” 

Sherlock suppressed a shudder and tried to debate what would be the easiest thing for him to eat to appease John, who would not, under any circumstances, let up. He turned to hand John his tea and frowned as he stared at him. John had paused from trying to find some unmouldy slices of bread and had turned to sniff at his left shoulder and upper arm. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked putting the mug down on the table. 

“Yes, I can just still smell him. I don’t suppose a shower gets rid of that very easily. Some of these slices are ok, and I can take the crusts off the others.” 

Sherlock felt very unconcerned about the state of the bread. He stepped around the table, easing closer to John, leaning down to sniff him. John went still, his shoulders tensing slightly as Sherlock’s nose buried into his neck before moving across his shoulder. Then he felt the swipe of Sherlock’s tongue and he rubbed his chin on John’s shoulder. 

“What are you doing?” John asked as Sherlock moved to stand directly behind him, leaning into him, trapping him between the table and his body. Sherlock nuzzled his nose back into John’s neck. His hands rested on John’s hips, on the material of the jogging bottoms, but then they moved upwards, and Sherlock pressed his palms against John’s skin. 

“Scenting,” Sherlock answered as if it was obvious, while rubbing his chin on John’s shoulder again, using his grip to keep him steady and in place. 

“Okay,” John said slowly, as he breathed in he caught Sherlock’s scent which settled him, as it was one he was far more used to, and comfortable with. Closing his eyes he tensed as a disturbing flash of memory came to him, skin again, the thick scent of omega pheromones and the fire in his own mind. The reactionary growl he tried to give came out as something of a whimper. Sherlock’s chest vibrated against his back as he rumbled in response and licked the scruff of John’s neck before grazing his teeth across the skin, moving to the other side of John’s neck and focusing on that shoulder. Sherlock licked at the cuts that ran across his collar bone.

“Oh,” said Lestrade as he appeared in the living room blinking owlishly at the sight he was presented with. Annoyingly Sherlock’s face was hidden on the far side as he rubbed his cheek against John’s skin, which left John with the job of turning to face the DI. 

“Should I... go?” Lestrade asked. 

“No,” Sherlock’s voice announced. “John requires scenting.” 

Amazingly Lestrade seemed to accept that and nodded, sitting down by the fireplace, perfectly positioned to watch the interaction. Sherlock carried on with what he was doing and John distracted himself by continuing with the bread slices. 

“Do you want a sandwich?” he eventually asked Lestrade. 

“No, thank you.” 

John gave him a wary look since it sounding like the man was trying not to laugh. His eyes were wide as he watched the scene in the kitchen, but his expression held more fascination than humour. After a few minutes of the two working absorbingly in the kitchen Lestrade said. 

“Sherlock, wouldn’t it just be easier to piss on him and be done with it?” 

John hoped to God that was a joke, however, Sherlock stilled behind him. 

“No!” John announced. Sherlock’s head lifted from it’s resting place on his shoulder. 

"It would be the most efficient solution to the problem." 

"Not a chance, Sherlock." John straightened up, stepping back and gently bumping against the omega to get him out of his personal space. Stepping sideways John walked around the table to start fiddling with the sandwiches he was setting up from the other side of the kitchen. Sherlock watched him calmly. 

"I'll toast these, are you sure you don't want one?" 

Lestrade held up his hand. "I'm fine." 

"You can eat something," John said to Sherlock before turning and locating the sandwich toaster, the one that John had brought with him when he moved in and Sherlock had been told never to lay his hands on. He shoved a couple of the cheese sandwiches into it and waited for them to toast. 

"Do you want tea... without milk?" John asked Lestrade. 

"Coffee?" he asked hopefully. 

"Yeah, I think we have some," John said starting to rummage. "No," he added to an expectant looking Sherlock. 

"It will erase the unwanted scent." 

"Sherlock, I am not that desperate. You are not urinating on me. The scent will fade." 

John thought that maybe Sherlock had thought of some way to turn it into an experiment. But as he looked at the omega's face, he actually saw some level of worry in his eyes, although he didn't say anything. He just watched John finish toasting one set of sandwiches and he pushed in another round. He put one set on a plate and held it out to Sherlock, who looked unconvinced. 

"Transport needs fuelling if you want it to get anywhere," John said, sounding, Lestrade thought, as if that comment got produced every time he wanted Sherlock to eat, almost like the aeroplane trick to get a toddler to open their mouth. Looking mulish Sherlock took the plate and wandered out of the kitchen, he settled himself on the arm of the sofa, plonking his feet on the seat and he nibbled the sandwich while watching John. Lestrade looked from one to the other. 

"So what happened? You two are obviously fine; if in need of scenting," he said to John. John and Sherlock looked at each other steadily before settling down and running through the night's events and the revelations therein. 

After Sherlock had talked, Lestrade ran through what had happened over the last few days to update John, and John desperately tried to tell them what he remembered of the events he had gone through. 

"I can't think of anything much. It’s all a blur." 

Again Sherlock looked concerned. "You may not now, but you have said, you are experiencing some flashes of information due to sights and scents. Your unconscious mind is trying to tell you what happened." 

"Good for it," John said. "By the sight and smell of it I may not care to." 

"If your unconscious mind is in control you may not have a choice," Sherlock warned him. 

John looked confused for a moment and then nodded. "You mean I might dream it, or just doing a routine task that lets my mind wander might bring something up." 

"It has been known, the only problem is, you're human, you think like one."

"Meaning what?" John asked. 

"Meaning you're not a wolf, you're not born and taught to deal with this situation."

"Sherlock, to point out the obvious, you are also human, you act like one, you look like one." 

"And I was born with the ability to change my body into a wolf. You came into that habit months ago," Sherlock said sadly. "It is not the same." 

"Just because your mind has been trained to accept something does not make it right, and you know that, or at least Mycroft knows that, because he wouldn't have let me near you otherwise," John said. Sherlock's eyes distanced, clearly processing that information. He was brought back to reality as Lestrade asked. 

"Which brings us to a pertinent point in this situation. Who is going to tell Mycroft what happened?"


	14. Emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft doesn't take the news well. Although a deeper explanation of his reactions will come... eventually....

The Diogenes club never closed. The lights would dim and certain doors would be locked giving an illusion that the men within slept but the workings of the government never slept, certainly not the part that kept things moving, and deeper within that, in a darker part of the building, the night was a welcome thing. Sherlock went around the back to let himself in the door that only a select few had knowledge of. It looked formidably shut, but one push opened it up. You had to mean it to do so, only a wolf, or a very strong human could move it's weight and a guard remained on it day and night. If you got through the door you had to get past the guard. 

The current guard, Blake Taylor, did not like Sherlock and as he entered Blake remained blocking the corridor. He knew he could not stop the pack leaders' omega from entering, Mycroft would skin him if he did such a thing, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Sherlock slowly walked forward, glowering as Blake didn't move. He walked up and paused in front of him, the beta wolf's nostrils flared, picking up Sherlock's scent, and also John's. It caused a flicker in Blake's eyes as the pupils morphed briefly. 

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. 

Blake narrowed his eyes. 

"Go to the stranger's room, I'll tell him you're here." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he waited for Blake to move, which he didn't. 

"How's that little human girlfriend of yours?" 

Blake growled. "None of your business." 

"Do your parents know? Mind you, all the way out in Norfolk, how are they going to?"

Blake took a step closer, his chest almost brushing against Sherlock's. 

"Is that a threat?" 

"No, what you are doing is a threat, I'm just enquiring." 

Blake growled, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then stepping forward used his shoulder to push Blake out of the way, in what was almost a challenge. Almost. However hard Sherlock pushed Blake wouldn't go too far. It would be viewed by Mycroft, and the rest of the pack, as a direct challenge to the pack leader. Even if Sherlock now had John as a guardian alpha, he was still Mycroft's brother, and under his protection. 

"I'd tell her to stop wearing perfume if I was you. That's the giveaway." 

Blake growled again, but he didn't dare do anything, instead he called upstairs to Mycroft private rooms and informed him that Sherlock had arrived. 

"Alone?" Mycroft asked. 

"Yes," Blake said.

In actual fact Sherlock had not travelled alone, John and Lestrade had entered through the main entrance. As a regular visitor Lestrade signed himself and John in and they settled in the drawing room of the club, as close to the corridor leading into the back areas as they could. John was not happy, and he couldn't, now, discuss his fears with Lestrade. The police officer looked apologetic, but they were safer in the human side of the club, for now. Neither of them had wanted Sherlock travelling alone but he was, as Sherlock had pointed out, the best person to explain things to Mycroft.

One of the waiters served them drinks and they waited. John kept glancing at his watch, it seemed like minutes but each time he looked only a few seconds had passed. He looked at Lestrade, wanting to tell him he didn't like this situation in the slightest. By the look on his face Lestrade already knew that, and felt very much the same. John gave a glance round. They were far enough away from most people, and their nearest neighbour snoozed in his chair, so John risked it. Leaning forward he whispered. 

"This is a bad idea." 

Lestrade looked around warily. None of the waiters were in the vicinity, and the old man nearby continued to snooze on. 

"We can't not tell Mycroft." 

"No, I mean Sherlock going in there alone."

"He knows how to handle him, Sherlock will be fine." 

The moment Lestrade announced that a howl rent through the air. It roused the snoozing man and he jerked awake looking surprised, even more surprised as John catapulted from his chair, running to the back door. He knew the call had come from Sherlock, one of both anger and pain. John didn't know if the call was necessarily to attract his attention, the point was it had. 

Barging through the door to the back area he headed towards the strangers room and his pace slowed as Blake appeared to block his way. He had heard the sound as well and curiosity had got the better of him. With the back door still in line of sight he eased down the corridor to see what was occurring. He looked as far as John could tell, quite satisfied with the sounds coming from behind the nearby door, and as he turned to look at John his eyes hardened and he blocked the door. 

"You've got no business coming through here." 

John's eyes narrowed. From behind the door that Blake now blocked came a thud and angry snarl. John didn't have time to play a game of dominance with the beta wolf. Instead he pulled his gun, which he had retrieved from Sherlock. Blake looked almost shocked at the weapon, as if it was not within his natural order of things. 

"I don't care what you say, and I don't have time for you, so move." 

"John, you can't kill a pack member," Lestrade said in shock. John tilted his head and regarded Blake steadily. 

"Probably not," he said calmly, lowering the gun a little, Blake smirked and it was wiped off his face a second later as John shot him, in the thigh, causing a painful flesh wound. There would be no severe damage, just enough to cause pain. Blake fell against the wall and sank down, John walked past him without even looking at him, raising the gun again as another guard, alerted by the noise, ran onto the scene. At the sight of the gun, and a prone howling Blake he hesitated and John took advantage of that to get to the door. He turned the handle of the door and barged in. 

His eyes widened in shock. As his eyes swept the scene he processed things in a way that would have perhaps made Sherlock proud; however it just made John angry. Sherlock's coat and jacket lay neatly folded over the back of a nearby chair as if he expected what was to happen. John raised the gun again, pointing it at Mycroft's chest. 

The alpha wolf had Sherlock bent over the large desk on the right of the room, pinned down by a firm hand on the scruff of his neck, his shirt had been ripped from collar to waistband, exposing the skin of his back and two vicious looking welts marred Sherlock's flesh, caused by the riding crop in Mycroft's other hand. He had almost lifted it for a third blow when John had burst in. 

"Get off him!" John growled, meaning it. Sherlock shifted, trying to get some traction to get up, however Mycroft added weight to his grip to keep him down. 

"I mean it!" John added. 

Mycroft turned to glare at him, looking down his nose at him. John's brain fired with anger almost blurring his vision. He gave a low growl. 

"John," Sherlock's voice sounded strained as Mycroft tightened his grip. 

"Are you trying to challenge me for leadership?" Mycroft asked, the tone presumably was sarcasm, which did nothing to settle John. 

"No, but I want you off Sherlock, and I don't care if I have to kill you to do it." 

As John spoke, he knew the folly of what he was saying. Sherlock wouldn't want him to react like that. Some semblance of sense filtered into his raging mind and he struggled to hold onto it. 

"John," Lestrade's voice warned from behind him. 

Sherlock gave up trying to get out of Mycroft's grip. The two vicious strips on his back throbbed with pain and it distracted him from trying to calm the situation. If he couldn't manage it physically, he needed to do it verbally. 

"John, it's fine." 

"To me, Sherlock, it looks very un-fine." 

"Maybe to you," Sherlock soothed. "Just stay calm."

John growled, glaring at Mycroft. The alpha looked back steadily, having no intention of releasing Sherlock on John's say so. 

"You do not run this pack," Mycroft informed him. "What I choose to do with one of my wolves is entirely my affair."

"In this case it’s not, it’s also mine. You made me his guardian alpha."

"I didn't make you anything," Mycroft said smoothly. "True, you are useful, but no more." 

John felt a surge of anger at the derogatory tone, and he growled, the sound a clear challenge. His finger started to apply pressure to the trigger. 

"John, calm down," Sherlock ordered, as best he could in his unfortunate position. Instead he addressed his brother. "Mycroft, he's just come out of rut. There is a likelihood he will not behave entirely rationally."

Sherlock couldn't tell what Mycroft's reaction was. The grip on the scruff of his neck didn't change, but he sensed Mycroft's stillness. The alpha leant over Sherlock, causing John to growl, and he breathed in. 

"Not from you." 

"No, Moriarty. It was how he neutralized him so easily. Mycroft, let go of me."

Sherlock tried to move his head, to check on John's reaction. Mycroft's hand tensed, keeping him still. Sherlock restrained his growl of anger not wanting to make the situation worse. Most certainly not for John who, although tough, would probably not survive an encounter with Mycroft. The tableau held for several long, tension filled seconds until Sherlock felt the hold loosen. He extracted himself the moment Mycroft released him, straightening up but keeping his head deferentially lowered, he backed away from his brother towards John. 

The moment he entered John's range he was grabbed again, John's arm snaking around his waist. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled closer, letting John hold him as he snuffled his nose into Sherlock's spine. His tongue lapped against one of the welts. Sherlock winced, he knew he'd be sore for a few days. He gave a low reassuring growl before saying. 

"I'm fine John."

"You knew how he'd react."

"I couldn't be entirely sure,"

John breathed in Sherlock's scent. Across the room Mycroft watched them suspiciously. Lestrade eased his way into the room, closing the door. Blake's cries muted, although he was clearly still in pain. 

"John, you might need to help Blake."

John didn't immediately respond, still busy sniffing Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't moved, waiting for John to settle down when extracting himself would be easier. 

"What did he do?" Sherlock asked. 

"Flesh wound to the leg. Blake was going to stop John from getting to you," Lestrade said. 

Sherlock gave a snort that sounded quite distinctly like laughter. 

"That is not funny Sherlock," Mycroft snarled in such a dangerous tone that John growled and raised the gun again. He changed position moving Sherlock sideways so he no longer blocked his view of the other alpha. 

"John," Sherlock warned gently, having blocked the line of sight deliberately. 

"You shouldn't have brought him if he was erratic," Mycroft snapped. 

"He wasn't going anywhere near you without me," John snapped back. Sherlock, still leaning back against John, raised his hand inching along John's arm to take the gun from him. He felt John's muscles tense under his touch. 

"John, give me the gun."

John paused at the sudden, distinct change in Sherlock's voice. It was the same gentle tone he had used when talking to Sarah after John's dramatic shift. The tone filtered through the angry red fog in John's mind. He felt his arm relax and Sherlock's fingers wrapped around the barrel. John relinquished his hold and Sherlock exhaled sharply as he took hold of the weapon. 

All four of them stood in the room, not looking at each other, but surveying the scene they found themselves in. Sherlock rolled his shoulders and extracted himself out of his ruined shirt. John clenched his jaw at the two red marks on Sherlock's back as he reached out to pick up his jacket, sliding his arms into it to cover himself as best he could. 

John took a deep calming breath, at least he remembered to steady himself again the swamping emotions this time, but only just. Sherlock stared at him intently. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" 

"I'm fine Sherlock, perfectly calm."

"You should not have brought him near any other wolves if there was any risk of such a reaction."

Mycroft and Sherlock glared at each other. John concentrated on taking steadying calm breaths and Lestrade lingered by the door. 

"Shall I check on..."

From beyond the door Blake still moaned. John shook his head and turned. 

"I'll look at him." 

"Get them to bring him in here," Mycroft ordered. 

Between them the other guard and Lestrade helped Blake limp into the room and they carefully settled him on a chair, propping his injured leg on a stool. Lestrade went to fetch a medical kit from somewhere, which John now sifted through. Like Sherlock's it was well stocked; John guessed they didn't bother with hospitals if they could help it. The guard helped Blake out of his jeans to reveal the wound and the blond man glowered at John as he crouched beside him. 

He examined the wound carefully, wiping away some of the blood to see the damage. His aim had been careful despite his anger. 

"The bullet is easy to reach," he said picking up the forceps to probe the wound. Blake grunted in pain but remained still as John eased the bullet out. He gave a snarl as John pulled it clear.

"Do you know what you are doing?" Blake asked him. 

"I'm a doctor," John informed him. 

"In some poxy little clinic." 

John raised his eyes from the wound to meet Blake's gaze. "And before that I was an army doctor in Afghanistan. I've seen enough bullet wounds."

That shut Blake up and John concentrated on what he was doing, cleaning and dressing the wound. He tried not to think about the smell of blood and the other wolves in close proximity. Instead he forced himself to focus on the medical requirements of the situation. It wasn't until he felt the cool hand on his neck that he realised how hot he was. Sherlock crouched next to him. 

"John?" 

"I'm fine. I'm almost done."

"That's good, just stay calm."

"I am calm Sherlock."

"Not entirely," the omega said gently. He massaged his hand in a gentle circle on the back of John's neck. John closed his eyes briefly, he focused on Sherlock’s cool touch and soothing tone before opening them again and carrying on with treating the wound. As he concentrated John missed the expressions on the faces of the other wolves. Sherlock didn’t but he studiously ignored their reactions to his uncharacteristic behaviour.

It was something certainly characteristic of an omega, the ability to soothe and alpha suffering a rut. The behaviour was something Sherlock refused to conform to, almost training himself out of his natural reactions. However, John was somewhat different and Sherlock knew he couldn’t explain it. Or in truth, he could, but the bred wolves with him would find it incomprehensible. 

John very carefully dressed the wound and slowly sat back, leaning into Sherlock’s hand.

“You’d better take Blake upstairs to the guard room,” Mycroft ordered. The pressure of Sherlock’s hand increased as John tensed. Lestrade and the guard wolf worked around them as they helped Blake up from the chair to help him hobble upstairs. 

“I’ll go with them, just to make sure the dressings hold,” John said. “I’ll be fine,” he said to Sherlock, pre-empting anything he would say. Although he glared at Mycroft. 

“I’ll also be fine,” Sherlock said. 

"You said that half an hour ago."

"And I would have been perfectly fine John," Sherlock said self-consciously shifting the jacket. He turned and reached for his coat, sliding that over the top and buttoning it up. 

"As soon as you have settled Blake we'll leave," Sherlock assured him. John gave him a wary look, glancing at Mycroft before looking at Sherlock, who nodded reassuringly. 

John caught them up just as they were helping Blake climb the stairs. He walked after them and occasionally one of the trio would glance back, staring at him questioningly. 

It was only as they settled Blake on one of the beds and John administered a painkiller that the curious silence was broken. As he inserted the needle into Blake's arm the wolf leant over and sniffed John.

"You reek of omega, and not just Sherlock."

"That is none of your business," John snapped back.

Blake looked smug at his reaction. "You can't protect him from his own alpha, never mind anyone else." 

"I will protect him from whoever I have to," John said making that threat entirely plain to Blake. 

"You're not his alpha," Blake repeated. 

"Whether that's up for debate or not," John snapped roughly removing the syringe from Blake's arm causing him to wince. "I am his friend." 

John stalked to the door, not wanting to spend any longer with them, Blake made him pause. 

"He doesn't have friends." 

Turning back John glared at him. 

"Yes, he does."


	15. Nightmares

If anything else passed between Mycroft and Sherlock while John was gone, Sherlock didn't comment on it, and if it had it most certainly wasn't as physical as the first encounter John walked in on. However, he did notice the trace of Mycroft's scent on Sherlock. 

Neither of them spoke about what had gone on when they returned home. John had merely found cream for the bruised welts on Sherlock's back and Sherlock had kept as close to John as possible, scenting him as much as he could and keeping his own pheromone scent soothing. 

For days they carried on. Everything went quiet. Moriarty had appeared to have gone to ground, at least for the time being. Sherlock worked on a few cold cases and minor investigations, and made a mess of the kitchen during several experiments. John cleaned the kitchen and went to work at the clinic. Sarah had seemed relieved and pleased to see him, although he had to be very sketchy about the details of his disappearance. 

John tried not to feel plagued by the flickers of memory. They occurred randomly, and he somehow managed to get used to them. The feel of fur, the smell of sweat, the warmth of another person's skin, they all became everyday sensations. They were so minute and hard to grasp that it was easy to dismiss them. 

However, his subconscious had other ideas on the subject, and it decided to elaborate. 

The flesh tasted salty, the sweat and blood flowing into his mouth. He thrust his hips hard, slamming into another body, one that writhed under him, moving to meet every one of his strokes. John lapped at the blood, snarling with delight as he bit down again. 

"Such a good boy." 

The words seemed so close, as if whispered in his ear. John gasped as he woke up, panting and blinking as the remnant of Moriarty's voice echoed around his mind. His hands clenched, gripping the bedding as he tried to settle himself. Looking round he assured himself that he was in his room, in Baker Street and he was quite alone. He took a few deep breaths and turned his head at the sound of footsteps making their way upwards towards his room. A moment later Sherlock pushed the door open, silhouetting himself in John's doorway. 

“John?” Sherlock tugged the material of his dressing gown onto one slim shoulder in a gesture that seemed to John, still with the scents of his nightmare with him, faintly erotic. Sherlock moved slowly as he entered the room, not exactly tentatively, but there was caution. No fear, John noted, but just distinct caution. 

“I’m fine, just a… nightmare I suppose.” 

The calm answer seemed to reassure Sherlock, he walked nearer, sitting on the bed and placing a hand on John’s back. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, becoming increasingly tactile. The scenting was obvious, but the other thing, just his hand resting on a part of John’s body was something John couldn’t entirely define. 

“Not one of your usual ones, this was different,” Sherlock said. John raised himself up onto his elbows and turned his head to look at Sherlock. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t sleep much,” Sherlock said; a fact which John knew. “I hear you, having nightmares, I presume about Afghanistan. You don’t wake up and you don’t make any sounds. This was different.” 

“I woke up,” John said. 

“You were also snarling, and you howled. Just once, don’t worry, you weren’t that loud but it’s meaning was obvious.” 

“Was it?”

"Yes." 

"Care to elaborate?" John asked. 

"What was your dream about?" Sherlock asked back. 

It lingered in John's mind to tell Sherlock it was none of his business, but that wasn't true. The content told him that Sherlock had, very much so, a right to know what had gone on. He gave a heavy sigh. 

"John?" 

"I most certainly had sex with Moriarty. In the dream I was most definitely... having sex." 

"Enjoyably?" 

John frowned at Sherlock. "What kind of a question is that?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I merely wished to know your state of mind. I knew what had occurred." 

"Moriarty was clear on that, wasn't he?" 

"Plus the scent pattern was unmistakeable," Sherlock said. "There were clear indications around your groin, at the pool."

"How the hell do you know that?!" 

"When I knelt down in front of you." 

"And you did that to check my scent pattern." 

"There was also the distinct issue of the explosives attached to your torso." 

"Fair point." John fell silent for a moment alternating his gaze between the sheets he lay on and Sherlock. He couldn't work out if he felt embarrassed or not. Most of those things Sherlock dealt with were done so via a ruthless practicality, which John had started to realise was more defensive than it alluded itself to be. 

"What you're dealing with now are images that back up the facts that we already know." 

"It's easier just theoretically knowing it. I felt... I just dreamt I was.... I was having sex, he was under me and...." 

"I know the logistics John," Sherlock said. 

"And I don't remember three days of my life. They could have all been like that. Although I... there's one thing, not Moriarty but one of the others around him, a beta, I think."

"Sex again?" 

"No, I'm sure I killed him." John said. His brows creased into a frown of concern. "I know I've killed people before. I was in the army for God's sake. You have to, you're trained to. And with you and the cases, it's not something that bothers me. I had to it, I had to make the choice between me or you, and them. And I can't say that about this scenario." 

"You probably can. Given a chance, in a fight, another wolf will aim to kill you. Whether it was your instinct or your unconscious mind making the decision you were doing what you needed to protect yourself." 

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

Sherlock paused for a moment his hand remaining a warm, reassuring pressure on John's back. 

"I suppose not."

It wasn't the most comforting of things to say but John wasn't sure he wanted to be comforted. His actions might have been justified but he hadn't been in control of any of them. Alphas were portrayed as the big, strong, aggressive defenders of the pack. The reality made them seem far more vulnerable. At that moment John would have given anything to be a nice, middle of the road, beta which is what he should have been. He was the only person in the entire world to be bitten and turn alpha. He had the reactions, the senses and strength of one. And no one had any idea how that had occurred. 

"John?"

"I'm fine, I will be fine. I don't feel very tired now."

"Shall I make tea?" Sherlock asked. 

John shifted on the bed and nodded. Taking the hint Sherlock stood up and padded to the door pausing to wait for him as he rolled out bed and grabbed his own dressing down. Once he was sure John was following Sherlock carried on and headed into the kitchen. He filled the kettle while John rummaged for mugs and teabags. Both of them lingered in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. Sherlock poked at one of his experiments while he waited and John assessed the silence. 

It was not uncomfortable. The fact that Sherlock could stay silent for hours meant that John had become used to not talking, or filling in the gaps himself if he felt like it. This silence now had an air of something, an unspoken barrier that lingered between them. The building of it had been entirely unintentional, and it probably wouldn't stay there, the discussion would happen in time. 

John's eyes narrowed as Sherlock reached for the mugs and winced as his bruised back flared with discomfort. 

"Are you all right?" John asked. 

"Yes, it is more irritating than painful."

"You sound as if that sort of thing is a normal occurrence."

"It's nothing to be concerned about," Sherlock said. "Mycroft will not do me any permanent damage. Others may." 

"Are you seriously telling me that Mycroft does things like that so someone else won't?"

"Mycroft is far more lenient than any others would be."

"That's his idea of lenient." 

Sherlock sighed. "He still has to be seen to be dealing with things. Since an unfamiliar wolf has been on our territory, it needs a reaction."

"You didn't know he was a wolf."

"There was no indication prior to the confrontation, even when he sent me pictures of you he was careful." 

"I think I was cleaned up for each one of those. I do remember a shower somewhere along the way." 

"He wanted to save that surprise for when we were face to face. I should have seen it though, there were hints, enough now that... I made a mistake. There's always something!" 

"Maybe he was hoping for more than just a stand off," John mused. 

Sherlock paused lamenting his lack of insight and frowned. "In what way?" 

"A connection. You're both outsiders I suppose," John said carefully. It was a bit of a sore subject for Sherlock. He lived with being a male omega but he didn't have to like it. 

"I'm not," Sherlock contradicted calmly. "I live under pack protection. Mycroft's actions may be somewhat questionable in your eyes but they ensure he can keep me within that circle of safety. Plus I have a guardian alpha."

"Not much of one though."

Sherlock looked at John reproachfully. 

"The relationship is never as simple as that. None of them are, human emotions complicate things."

Sherlock stepped back to let John stir the water and remove tea bags. 

"I suppose," John conceded. Sherlock stared at him for a moment. 

"You are not familiar with the psychology of wild wolves?"

"Not really," John said handing Sherlock a mug.

"The omega plays a slightly different role, although they work to keep the pack calm, used a focus for the alpha and beta's aggression without causing all out war. If in a bad mood the alpha male may prevent them eating, the betas have someone to fight without challenge." 

"The equivalent of a punching bag." 

Sherlock shrugged. "Somewhat, but to keep things running it is significantly important, and the death of an omega wolf is far more mourned than any other." 

"Mycroft seems to treat you in a very similar fashion, as a punching bag." 

Sherlock shrugged. "The situation cleared up more than a few issues." 

"What issues?"

"That Mycroft hasn't relinquished responsibility for me and therefore I'm still a controllable element. But he has no reason to risk himself since there is you." 

"I can't ever see Mycroft at risk."

Sherlock shrugged. "He's fairly well protected on all sides, the only side he is perhaps not is by me, and the pack don't like it." 

"Why not? I didn't think the packs were that close knit." 

"They are in some senses, they are widespread to minimise exposure, but if Mycroft wasn't there, there would be no safety net for anyone. Without him holding it up the entire system would crumble. I'm partly responsible for that." 

"How?" 

"If the rest of the pack had had their way, I would have been dealt with the same method as Moriarty; driven out. Mycroft put a lot of effort into preventing that. And he ended up with no choice but to take the pack on when the previous leader died."

John pondered that, and the hints he had been given on entering the Strangers Room. 

"Are you seriously suggesting that you and Mycroft staged that scene?" 

Sherlock frowned and shrugged. "Not entirely."

"You were prepared for it, you'd taken your coat and jacket off, and they were both neatly folded, so you had time to do so."

"I did have a conversation with Mycroft before he reacted." 

"But that means you knew what he would do, and you made enough noise," John said. "So both of you must have known what I would do."

"Naturally. Although I underestimated the affect of your rut, you were quite irrational." 

John glowered at him. "It had nothing to do with that." 

"Your emotions would have been unbalanced. It happens to all alphas before and after rut." 

"I was perfectly balanced, apart from being angry at Mycroft."

"And that isn't difficult," Sherlock said. 

"Sherlock! Whether you think that rut had any affect on my behaviour is neither here nor there, the point being if I had been no where close to rut I would still have shot Blake, and would have threatened Mycroft with the same to protect you!"

Sherlock looked somewhat startled as John raised his voice, really wanting to get his point across. It was entirely true, John didn't think he would have acted any differently. He watched the expressions flicker over Sherlock's face, the best one being surprise, which was followed by realisation that John probably would have behaved as such. 

"I killed one person to protect you when I hardly knew you." 

"You're an alpha, it's your instinct to do so..." Sherlock spoke, talking normally at the beginning of the sentence, by the end he had slowed down, as if processing what he was saying, as he said it, as if it took him by surprise. He assessed John again looking him up and down, his eyes registering something in an entirely new light. 

"What?" John asked, getting a little irritated with him. 

"Nothing, just... nothing... yet. Perhaps you should go and see your therapist again." 

"What for?" 

"The memories are clearly disturbing you," Sherlock said with concern. "And I know it might not be the best solution but as an alpha Mycroft might be able to talk you through some of it." 

John snorted as he took a sip of his tea and inhaled rather than drank it, Sherlock grimaced as John started to cough. He managed to recover after a few seconds and shook his head rubbing his nose to ease the stinging. 

"I'm fine, if I ever get that desperate we know we're in trouble."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might, as my mind as gone on to consider the affects of Sherlock's faked death, move it up to that point after the next chapter. Depends if I think of anything else while I'm taking it up to that point.


	16. Someone Else's Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I ought to put some sort of warning on this. There is violence, and blood and I'm not entirely certain it isn't a little bit erotic. You choose.... Oh and a hint of something I might or might not work on.

When the location meeting turned out to be something other than the Diogenes Club, Lestrade knew to be wary. The empty broken down warehouse, missing most of it’s roof, did not seem like the best place to take afternoon tea, but that was what Mycroft appeared to be doing. He even had a little camping stove to boil the water. 

That again increased Lestrade’s nerves. The scene that greeted him looked like something out of a Monty Python sketch. Mycroft sat at a desk, boiling water and warming a teapot, while he waited for Lestrade to arrive. However, the comedy element ended there. Even in the open space Lestrade could pick up Mycroft’s strong scent and the vibes that went with it. This was no congenial chat, he was in serious trouble. 

“Do sit down,” Mycroft said calmly. He’d use that tone while holding a conversation with someone he was eviscerating so it did nothing to soothe the officer. However, he obeyed the command and slowly slid into the chair opposite Mycroft. Greg tried to sit up straight, but he couldn’t help cower a little, even though Mycroft didn’t pay him any attention for the moment. It gave Greg a chance to look around. No one else was present, whoever had laid out the furniture and crockery was long gone. Even Anthea didn’t appear to be close by. She hadn’t accompanied him in the car, and again, that was another thing to cause Greg to worry. 

Mycroft took his time, pouring tea into cups. 

“Thank you,” Greg said in a soft tone. Mycroft regarded him calmly and turned his glance briefly in the direction of the sugar bowl and milk just to his left. Greg took the hint and dumped three lumps of sugar in the tea and a generous splash of milk. He was about to have a serious shock, so he might as well drink the necessary sweet tea beforehand. Chances were he might not be able to afterwards. 

Knowing it would continue to unnerve the unfortunate beta wolf Mycroft carried on with what he was doing, fixing his own drink as he would like it and carefully putting the teapot on the trivet. To most people it would probably look ridiculous, but Mycroft could see Greg's growing nerves, because he knew something bad was coming. He couldn't do anything to advance it, only wait for it, causing the tension to rise in him. 

Mycroft had already debated his position on the situation. He wouldn't do Lestrade any permanent harm. Of the bitten wolves he had gathered into the fold he was the most useful; he was in a good position on the police force to assist other wolves, and of course, Sherlock trusted him, and had worked with Lestrade before the policeman had been bitten. 

Greg noisily dropped is teacup into the saucer, wincing at the noise he made, unable to keep his hands from trembling. Mycroft's gaze remained fixed on him and Greg steadied the cup and then placed his hands in his lap, twining his fingers together and forcing himself to sit still. He swallowed heavily as Mycroft put his own cup down, with significantly more grace. 

"This situation regarding James Moriarty needs some discussion." 

Greg nodded. "Of course." 

"Most notably, how my brother ended up confronting him alone." 

Greg cringed slightly. "He wasn't alone." 

The moment he said it he closed his eyes and the voice at the back of his mind, the wolf that lingered deep inside his consciousness, said 'don't contradict him'.

"I hardly think Dr Watson counted, considering he was a hostage." 

Greg had to concede that, he lowered his head a little further in concession of the point. 

"And I'm rather curious where you were, considering you had been tailing Sherlock for most of the time prior to that confrontation. You appear to have assisted him quite competently, up until that point." 

Mycroft looked at him expectantly, wanting an answer. The compliment didn't make the situation any better, it just meant that Mycroft was aware that Greg had attempted to protect Sherlock. So he could have tried lying, but what sort of thing could he honestly say. The vibes rippling off Mycroft, almost pounding through Greg they felt that strong, almost guided his truthful answer. The wolf part of his mind took control, it responded. 

"He never told me what he was doing. As far as I knew he was returning the plans to you." 

"And you believed him? So he was free to go and confront that rogue omega alone." 

"There was no real indication before that of what Moriarty was. As far as we were aware he was just a criminal element." 

Mycroft could move quickly, so fast that sometimes if you blinked at the wrong time, you missed it. This was not one of those occasions. He stood up slowly, pausing to fastidiously smooth down his tie and waistcoat before strolling around the table. 

Greg hunched lower, panicked mantras circling around his head. Sweat prickled on his forehead and down his back. Instincts swelled within him, all contradicting each other; one to run, one to turn and fight and the last to just cower and beg. His mind couldn't tell him which was the most sensible. He whimpered as Mycroft's hand rested, deceptively gently, on the back of his neck, before pushing his head down. His forehead thudded against the desk top, causing the cups to rattle in the saucers. Greg didn't know if that was deliberate on Mycroft's part, or if he had dropped more readily than the alpha male expected. 

"They could take out an alpha male, one who had been trained in combat. That should have been enough of a warning." 

Greg didn't answer, his hands tightened painfully, fingers throbbing as he constricted the blood supply to his digits. He gave a whimper, a clear plea, to the bigger, stronger wolf. Mycroft's hand tightened and Greg felt himself start to tremble.

"There was no reason to assume it related to that," Lestrade stammered. "They could have used human methods." As he spoke Greg's mind yelled at him to be quiet, the human part of him that tried to hold on under the influence of Mycroft's scent and power. The wolf was overwhelmed by it, fearful of the more powerful creature, and also angered. His human mind told him he shouldn't put up with being treated like this. 

"You put a pack member at risk," Mycroft said. "You put my brother at risk." 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know I should have told you but Sherlock..."

Greg paused, wondering if he could really blame Sherlock for persuading him to help. The clues were obvious, the beta wolf corpse that had been left at the blast site, one of the two that had consistently hunted Sherlock. And how much of a coincidence was it that the other injured one had made his way to John's clinic, and from there to Mycroft's custody, where he gave enough information to bait the relevant hooks. 

"I couldn't say no to him," Lestrade eventually sighed. 

"I do wonder," Mycroft answered, leaning over Greg slightly. "If you really have forgiven him."

Greg closed his eyes. All he had in his eye line was a close up of the wood surface of the desk, so he wasn't missing anything. He gave another whimpering little plea. 

"Yes I have." 

Mycroft didn't answer that. At least not immediately, and when he did his words didn't appear to have any baring on the previous subject. 

"If you wouldn't mind unfastening your jacket, and shirt. Oh and of course your tie." Again Mycroft felt the shiver as Lestrade's trembling increased. 

Greg struggled for a moment, unable to free his tightly twisted fingers. He gave a panicked breath as Mycroft's hand tightened again and the fingers of his other hand eased under Greg's collar. He was pulled upwards back into a sitting position and Mycroft's grip slid from the back of his neck to his jaw, lifting his chin and tilting his head to expose his neck. Greg heard a slight rip of material and his collar pulled into his throat as Mycroft hinted at his impatience. 

"It would be unfortunate," Mycroft threatened. "Since you have no change of clothes."

With a jerk of his shoulders Lestrade managed to untangle himself and he wriggled his numbed fingers, trying to generate some blood flow before he started to fumble with the buttons of his jacket. He felt the material of his collar tear a little further. Greg started to pull his jacket off his shoulders, struggling to ease the material down his back. Eventually the jacket slumped down the back of the chair and Lestrade struggled with the rest of his clothes, pulling his tie free and getting his shirt off. 

By the time he had finished he was breathing heavily, shivering and sweating at the same time. Mycroft had moved to the side of the chair and Lestrade closed his eyes, not wanting to see what might happen. He felt Mycroft lean down and Greg whimpered as Mycroft's mouth latched onto his neck and his teeth pressed in over the thudding pulse point. Lestrade tensed as he felt the press of elongated canines. Mycroft however didn't intend to bite him, Greg knew the hold was merely to fix him in position, instead he felt the intense pain as claws pressed into the skin of his chest, just under his right nipple. 

It was testament to the sheer will-power and control that Mycroft had. He could shift the smallest part of himself, such as his teeth and claws and hold himself on that point. Such small flickers were generally the involuntary reaction of a bitten wolf, struggling with the power. If a bred wolf started a shift it normally ran the course, their body wanting to change rather than hold. Mycroft had somehow managed to master himself, to a point he could control it. 

Greg heard the keening sound, his own voice, high-pitched and filled with pain as Mycroft dug the claws into his skin and dragged them down his chest, over his stomach, pressing in just above the waistband of his trousers, before backtracking up the scratches. The upward stroke allowing him to increase the angle. He didn't cause any serious damage, he simply deepened the gouges, dragging his claws through Lestrade's skin. 

Greg's hands clenched on either side of the chair seat, his back rigid as he held himself still, taking the punishment that Mycroft carefully doled out. The claw paused at the top of the scratches and withdrew, as did the bite, so suddenly that Greg slipped from the chair in shock. For a moment he thought his head would crash against the edge of the desk. 

Mycroft realised the same thing as Lestrade pitched off the chair. His lightening reflexes reacted and he caught the side of his head, keeping it clear of the wood. Mycroft didn't want him stunned to the point he couldn't comprehend what was going on. As he landed he curled up on the floor, quivering at Mycroft's feet, still whimpering in pain and fear. Mycroft watched him for a moment before slowly crouching down and rolling him so he lay on his back. Lestrade still had his eyes closed, not daring to look at the alpha wolf. His eyes screwed up tighter as Mycroft's fingers ran through his hair, as if Lestrade was trying to persuade himself that the bogeyman wasn't real. Unfortunately, Mycroft was very real indeed. 

Blood had started to well up from the deep scratches, Mycroft leant over to inhale and he gave a low growl. Greg again whimpered, this time with mild confusion. He felt himself eased up into a sitting position and Mycroft's face again buried into the side of his neck, this time snuffling gently and licking lightly. Greg wasn't surprised when Mycroft moved lower to lap at the blood trickling down his chest, the sounds the alpha made this time were of comfort and reassurance. Although when he lifted his head and spoke the words did nothing to ease him. 

"Make a note of the scars, next time I'll go much deeper." 

Greg gave another whine, his body limp with exhaustion and fear as Mycroft pulled him close, resting Greg's head on his shoulder. He had made his point, and it had been understood. It was probably not Lestrade's fault. He trusted Sherlock and would follow him with little question and Mycroft relied on that. However, Mycroft also relied on keeping some of Lestrade's loyalty to himself. He was not a born wolf but circumstances meant it had been wise to accept him into the pack without question. It would have damaged Sherlock too much for him not to do so. 

In considering the circumstances, and wondering how to dole out punishment, what he didn't need was John Watson holding any sway over the beta wolf. As an alpha it might occur, even without John realising what he was doing. The balance of the situation remained a little tenuous, and the relationships so complex they could hardly be easily defined. Mycroft stopped considering the issue as he realised Lestrade, in fear or exhaustion, or both, was muttering to him in a low tone. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disobey you. I don't want Sherlock hurt. I forgave him. I wouldn't do anything to hurt him."

That was perhaps the problem, Mycroft thought as he gently shushed the muttering, running his fingers through the distressed man's hair and holding him lightly in his arms lapped at the wounds again before nuzzling against Lestrade's throat. He felt him swallow and then sigh. 

"Never again fail to inform me of what my brother is doing, whatever he says to the contrary." 

"No, alpha. I won't." 

Mycroft believed him. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"What is it?" Sherlock asked of her. He had paused after just passing her on the corridor, turning on the spot to talk to her. Sally paused blinking in surprise. 

"You look as if you want to say something but don't know how to approach it, what is it?" Sherlock asked. 

For a moment she didn't know what to say. She had been on the cusp of saying something as she had seen him striding confidently down the corridor, such an offensively stark contrast to how her boss had looked yesterday after returning from whatever meeting he had gone to, sitting down at his desk and staring at his paperwork as if he was exerting every ounce of will-power to prevent himself from bursting into tears. In the end the best she could do to help was offer him some tea, which had seemed to terrify him as he frantically demanded coffee instead. 

She didn't know what it was about, but she did know the black car that had turned up meant it had something to do with the pack, and by default, something do to with Sherlock. Now she felt in a quandary. It hadn't been him who had directly done anything to Lestrade but it no doubt involved him. Sherlock waited patiently in front of her, if she just walked away, he would no doubt just carry on walking and forget about it; or she could tell him. 

"Yesterday," she said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

"I wasn't here yesterday." 

"No, but that black car came, and the boss went somewhere and when he came back..." she paused, not sure what to say. "Something bad had happened, I don't know what." 

Mycroft was what, Sherlock knew. And Sherlock knew he had put Lestrade in a highly problematic position. He wouldn't get any information about what had happened, certainly not from Lestrade, and asking Mycroft would merely antagonise him further. Instead Sally received the odd, sudden change that occasionally occurred in Sherlock. One of those rare hints that perhaps there was some emotion lingering in him. He gave her a flicker of a smile and his voice, as he spoke, was soft. 

"I'll see what I can do." 

What Sally took as emotion Sherlock took as the convenient use of his omega abilities. Neither of them, and both of them, were right.


	17. Sherlock's Solution

Sally watched her boss warily. He seemed to be behaving entirely normally, but most of the functions seemed to be automatic. She watched him lingering by the bar, not wanting to join them in celebrating. Instead he nursed his own drink, talking when spoken to and still not interacting as he normally would. He had increased the distance by taking himself off to buy a round. 

"At least we did this one without the Freak," Anderson slurred beside her. 

"I guess," she commented absently, as she wondered if she should go and speak to her boss the door to the pub opened and John Watson stepped over the threshold looking around intently. He spotted Greg first, frowning as he assessed him. Then looking around he met Sally's eyes, he gave her a brief smile and a nod of acknowledgement. Then John's attention went back to Lestrade and he walked through the crowds in the pub to reach him. 

Lestrade was just reaching into his wallet to pay for the drinks when John brushed close to him, causing him to jump and nearly overturn Anderson's pint. 

"I'll get these," John said. 

"I'm buying a round for the squad." 

"Fair enough," John said producing another note. For someone who was usually so careful with his money John seemed suddenly to be casually throwing it around. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah. It's on Sherlock." 

Lestrade smiled. "Don't tell them that, they'll choke on it. I'll take these over." 

"I'll do that, you stay there," John said taking the last few drinks loaded onto a tray over to the rowdy looking group. He eased past Sally to place the tray on the table and she shifted glasses around to give him space. 

"Thanks, I just need to speak to Greg," John said before leaving. Sally watched him go, heading back to her boss. After a moment's brief conversation at the bar they headed over to a quiet corner by the window. 

For a moment Lestrade just examined his drink, one that he didn't really feel like drinking, anything he ingested just seemed to lie heavily on his stomach, and caused his wounds to ache. John watched him for a moment, unsure what he was doing. Something had happened, but Sherlock's method of dealing with it didn't involve Mycroft. 

"Sherlock told me," John eventually said. "He told me what happened. At least what he knows of it." 

For a moment Lestrade looked terrified, eyes widening in shock, then his expression slipped into something that couldn't be defined. 

"Oh that." 

As casual as it sounded it seemed to sum up Sherlock revealing his most deep and sensitive secret to someone. Greg looked down at his drink, watching the bubbles moving around the liquid, then he looked up at John. Sherlock had trusted that secret to the one person he could leave it with. John wouldn't judge him for it. Even Greg had never done so. John would listen to what he heard and would understand how deep the scars, the loyalty, and the mess really went. 

"That," John clarified. "It couldn't have been easy." 

"It wasn't his fault."

"He did say that he doesn't really remember it, just what he was doing before it and when he woke up in hospital."

"He was so high on drugs he could have been floating off the ground," Lestrade said. "I startled him, and he thought I was... he was probably beyond thinking by that point."

"You don't blame him, that much is obvious," John said. 

Lestrade looked back down to his drink. "I could have maybe, but, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."

"That didn't make it any easier though, did it?" 

Lestrade shook his head. "I suppose not." He gave a heavy sigh. "I got through it better than most people, Mycroft made sure of that." 

"I bet he did," John snarled uncharitably. Lestrade stared at him in shock and then said levelly. 

"He did what he could to salvage a bad situation."

"His only aim was to protect Sherlock." 

"Are your aims any different?" Lestrade countered. "It was you who shot that cabbie, and you almost took on Mycroft over Sherlock." 

He felt some satisfaction in watching John blink in surprise at the reference to the cabbie.

"Oh." 

"Don't worry," Lestrade said, taking a casual gulp of his pint. "I worked it out a long while ago, not straight away mind. It just seemed very weird that Sherlock got halfway through a deduction and then stopped and, more importantly, told me to ignore him. You mentioned something a couple of weeks later about target practice and it sort of fitted."

"And you didn't tell anyone?" 

Lestrade shook his head. "It seemed pointless. The man was a killer, and Sherlock nearly ended up at one of his victims. I actually thought it was something to do with Mycroft in the beginning. He's usually got some eyes on Sherlock."

"And now he has me," John remarked cynically. Lestrade looked uncomfortable. 

"No, when it comes to being his eyes, Mycroft has me. If anything happens, I'll have to tell him John. I can't not." 

John didn't say anything for a moment. He stared at Lestrade, his eyes moving up and down, as if trying to assess what might have happened. By the look in his eyes Greg presumed Sherlock had given him enough information. John could probably work some of it out by himself anyway. He had met enough wolves to know they could be vicious if so inclined. Greg stared down into the dregs of his pint, shifting the glass from side to side while he watched the foam swirl around the bottom. 

"Another?" he asked. 

Greg glanced up, he knew he had drunk enough, by the look on his face, John knew it to, however he offered anyway. Greg nodded. Without a word John got up and went to the bar again, leaving Greg with his own thoughts for a moment. 

He debated what Sherlock had confessed to John. It did show the measure of trust that Sherlock had placed in the alpha. John had also shocked the other pack members by declaring him to be Sherlock’s friend. Apart from Mycroft Sherlock hadn’t really had anyone looking out for him. Greg had tried, but he had so many other things going on and he had so desperately wanted to hang onto his job, even more so than his marriage. His relationship hadn’t had a hope of surviving after he had been bitten. 

“I can’t honestly say Mycroft seems bothered about what the other wolves get up to,” John commented when he returned. 

“If it doesn’t threaten the pack as a whole then he’s fine. But he’s a bit obsessive when it comes to Sherlock. Without really meaning to he’s made him the pack’s most prominent omega, if Sherlock asserted his authority the other omegas would have to defer to him.” 

John frowned. “Really?” 

“He doesn’t, but it’s there, each caste has it’s own hierarchy within it.” 

“Whose lead beta?” 

Greg grimaced. “Around London, Blake Taylor, although his position is a little precarious at the moment, while he’s not mobile. There are only two other alphas in London, and they don’t often take the bitten wolves that seriously but you might want to watch your back.” 

“Should I?” 

“Despite the reasoning, you threatened Mycroft, and he backed down, or rather he let you take Sherlock.” 

“That’s a separate thing though,” John said. 

Greg shook his head. “You’re the guardian alpha of the pack’s lead omega. Anthea rates pretty highly, as she’s Mycroft’s, but Sherlock could pull rank on her if he chose. He doesn’t, and I don’t think Anthea would take him too seriously if he tried." 

John considered the dark haired woman, who didn't seem to take any of them seriously. Although presumably she occasionally looked up from her BlackBerry when Mycroft was around. 

"Sherlock doesn't though, does he? Pull rank I mean." 

Greg shook his head. "Most of the time he just wants to be left alone. Not that he could manage without the pack. You saw what Moriarty was like."

John winced. "I don't remember all of it."

"You remember that he's nuts though?" 

John shrugged and then nodded. "It's a simple way of putting it."

"Wolves can manage alone. Bitten ones certainly, but bred wolves are pack animals, to survive they need company, and although they can be lone it's not good for them, particularly omegas, they thrive more on interaction than any other caste."

"You'd think that Sherlock doesn't," John mused. "But he does."

"He loves being a smartass," Lestrade said. "And he thrives on it, speaking to the others, however he does it. And I saw his face when you called his deductions amazing, at that crime scene in Brixton."

"And you think without that, he's in danger of being like Moriarty?" 

"I don't like agreeing with her on it, but Donovan has a point when she says there could be a time when Sherlock's stood over a dead body and he's put it there. She could be describing Moriarty."

"Jesus," John swore. 

"There are a lot of fine lines in this world. Sherlock walks one of them. We all do to some extent." 

John's eyes narrowed, Lestrade looked unhappily into his pint. 

"What did Mycroft actually do?" 

He watched Lestrade shift, one hand drifting to smooth down his shirt, although John noted he didn't actually touch the material. 

"It doesn't matter." 

John leant forward, hunching his shoulders. "It does," he murmured in a low tone. "I can smell the blood, and there's some on your shirt."

Lestrade jolted in his seat and looked down in shock. He stared at the pristine white cotton in confusion. His head jerked back up again as John repeated his question. 

"What did Mycroft do?" 

"That wasn't fair," Lestrade snapped at him looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. John winced inwardly, Greg was probably right, it hadn't been fair, but at least he had a hint of where the damage lay. Sherlock knew his brother well enough to give John the hints he needed. 

"No," John agreed. "But I'm worried about you, Sherlock is worried about you - he put you in this position." 

"He was worried about you, and so was I. I took the risk in helping Sherlock, and not telling Mycroft. It was my choice, and I'd pay for it, I knew that."

John watched Greg take a heavy swallow of his pint, he sounded resigned to what Mycroft had done and whether or not that was the way the pack worked, it certainly didn't mean that John could avoid any responsibility. 

"Come on," he said pushing his drink aside and standing up. For a moment Lestrade looked slightly panicked. 

"Where?" 

John shrugged his coat on. "The surgery, I'm a key holder so I can open up. I want to check the wounds, I dare say you haven't had then looked at." 

"I have." 

"By a pack member I presume, not a doctor." 

Lestrade looked uncomfortable, and he weighed up his options. He had been patched up by the wolves who had driven him away from the meeting site but the care had been somewhat cursory. Very slowly Lestrade nodded, which eased the knot in John's stomach. From treating Sherlock on that first night John knew how vicious wolves could wound. He'd feel better at least knowing Lestrade would heal, even if he couldn't sit in open judgement on the person who had done the damage. 

"Okay." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

John had tried not to look shocked as Lestrade had carefully removed his shirt and allowed John to carefully peel away the dressings on his chest. As far as John could tell the wounds were clean, and they appeared to be starting to heal. However, he decided to stitch the sections which still looked a little open. Lestrade didn't move throughout the procedure, hands clamped on the edge of the examination bench. 

Occasionally John would glance up from what he was doing to gauge Lestrade's reactions. If Lestrade caught John's eye he looked away immediately, finding the posters and information on the walls of John's surgery intensely interesting. 

"You'll be fine, although you'll have scars." 

"That's the point," Lestrade said. "As Mycroft said, next time he'll go deeper." 

John straightened up, turning to reach for a dressing. "There won't be a next time, if you think you should tell him something then just damn well tell him." 

"Did Sherlock agree to that?" 

John huffed in a way that told Greg Sherlock didn't know anything about it yet. 

"He doesn't want to see you getting hurt either. And if Mycroft tries anything else then tell us." 

Lestrade gave a flicker of a smile at the 'us'. As he slipped on his shirt he said. 

"Anyone would think you were building your own pack." 

John gave him a very disapproving glare. "This is nothing to do with the pack, it's about looking after friends."


	18. Unscheduled Heat

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded nervous, and Sherlock presumed he had every right to be. He tried to open his eyes but the drug Irene had given him most definitely contained a strong sedative and, much to Sherlock's chagrin, he was feeling the affects. They had started a while ago, and he had hoped to ignore the progression, but it had relentlessly continued. 

He could probably make a rough guess as to what was had been in the syringe, over the years he had learnt enough about drugs, far too much really, and in the worst way possible. He huffed as he thought of that, how many times had he willingly done this to himself. 

"Sherlock?" 

John had moved closer and Sherlock breathed in deeply feeling his body to react to the alpha scent. A reaction which then caused John to react, Sherlock heard him growl and John's nose buried into his sweat damp hair. Sherlock's hands gripped the sheets and he forced himself to steady his breathing. 

"Sherlock?" John now sounded highly concerned. Sherlock managed to open his eyes. 

"I'm fine John." 

"You didn't warn me you were due a cycle?" 

Sherlock shook his head, and it felt like his brain was on a rollercoaster. He stopped moving and forced himself to speak. 

"I wasn't. It's drug induced." 

"Really?" 

Sherlock cursed himself inwardly. He couldn't honestly sit down and go through every facet of werewolf physiology with John, but he really should have covered some things. Not that Sherlock   
ever intended to be taking drugs again. 

"Whatever she gave me," Sherlock said letting his control slip. He could smell the flare of his own pheromones, so could John, who leant down. The reaction in his body forced the sedative away, and his body tingled as the fur started to push up through his skin. Allowing it through gave him enough clarity to explain. 

"It sometimes happens, it's known as a false cycle. It happens if an omega's body chemistry is affected, or even if they are badly injured. The distress will attract alphas, and induce them to care for the omega." 

"Don't they just... you know..." 

"Have sex?" Sherlock finished. "No, the chemical composition is slightly different. Plus, if there is more than one alpha they will fight each other, omegas never generally come to harm. If there is a guardian alpha the scent generally calls them." 

John nodded, agreeing with something that he didn’t really get. He was used to Sherlock’s scent and it currently attracted him, but then it always did. It lingered at the back of his mind whenever he was in proximity. All it meant then was that he just felt aware of Sherlock, he lingered on the periphery of his consciousness, and if needed John would snap to full attention when Sherlock needed him. The intense scent drew him now, but it had the two times he had been present when Sherlock was in his cycle. 

John inhaled again looking around as he did so feeling confused, there was another smell in the room, one that put John off kilter. Sherlock's pheromones were confusing everything but still, John could not lose the odd scent that seemed to linger in the air. Sherlock groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and he quite obviously began, by the movement under the duvet, rubbing his groin against the mattress. John became distracted from the anomalous scent and instead he paid attention to Sherlock. 

He watched the slow movement of Sherlock’s hips and then blinked, slowly, steadily and with intense concentration. 

“I’ll get some towels,” he announced. It seemed like a calming, practical thing to be doing. Sherlock's answer was muffled by the pillow, but it seemed to agree with John. He didn't care if it did or not, he was going for towels so he could take a moment to gather his senses. 

In the bedroom Sherlock tried to do the same. When he knew he was going into his cycle that was fine, he could prepare, deal with it and then move on. He didn't like being taken by surprise, he wasn't ready for it, he didn't have time for it. The last thing he needed was a false cycle. 

He snorted into the pillow as the phrase ran around his head. Every cycle he had was a false cycle. He was male for heaven's sake! It wasn't physically possible for him to get pregnant, so how could any of his cycles be real? They were nothing more than his body cruelly reminding him that he couldn't escape what he was. The wolf part was fine, the full moon and shifts, that was easy to manage. It was just the finer details that caused the problems. 

His body tensed and jerked and he rolled over, not wanting to mess the sheets as he came. He huffed at the sudden lack of friction and put his hand between his legs, palming his groin heavily. A moment later he soaked the front of his underwear, and slumped back onto the bed. He grimaced at the uncomfortable dampness and the smell of his own hormones. He pulled the sheets around him as he started to shiver, they would be impregnated with the smell, something that Sherlock hated by the end. His feelings were to a point that he couldn't even bare to deal with them, he simply wrapped them up and threw them out, after every cycle he bought new bedding. 

Naturally, the last two times, that had not happened. John had changed the bedding and taken the sheets to wash them. Sherlock hadn't commented. When he had seen the bedding again it had been clean, and fresh smelling. His own scent lightly traced on them, but nothing of the nightmare of pheromones that he produced over that time period. John didn't think twice about cleaning up. Any mess Sherlock made John worked on, removing easily, so used to doing so that another one didn't have cause for any comment.

Sherlock groaned and turned his head towards the door as he smelt John returning, his arms burdened with a pile of towels. Pulling at his now sticky underwear he tried to get them off. His hands were weak and useless, he was still under the affects of the sedative. 

"I'll do it," John said. He put the towels down, unfolding one to have it ready for the next round. They didn't have time to be delicate about this, or act as wilting violets. John needed to be practical, and as a doctor he had seen most body parts. The only problem in dealing with Sherlock was the attraction of his scent, but as his guardian alpha John picked it up on a day to day basis, and if he focused, he found it easy enough to maintain some control. He supposed he ought to be glad Sherlock was home before the false cycle had kicked in, otherwise they might have had something of an issue in a public place, especially if any wolves happened to be in the area. 

He was so busy concentrating on what he was doing and keeping his reactions steady that it was only when Sherlock repeated himself that John paid attention, he dropped the towel on Sherlock's thighs so the omega had to straighten it up himself. 

"What?" John asked, making Sherlock ask a third time. 

"As a rule, generally, how rough are you during sexual intercourse?" 

"What kind of a question is that?!" John asked, thinking about sex, and Sherlock, with his pheromones cluttering up the air made John's focus crumble slightly. He leant over the bed, hands on the pillows on either side of Sherlock's head. Bracing his back he stopped himself from moving further but Sherlock's scent seemed stronger than the last two times John had experienced his cycle. 

"A practical one," Sherlock said his voice lowering, growling in a pleasant way that John liked. "I'm in the middle of a case, and we need to get that phone; plus we have several rather aggressive American agents getting in our way. I do not have time to spend two days in bed while my body gets through this, sexual activity may bring this to a conclusion by the morning, or at least to a point I can function properly." 

"Are you suggesting I... we... have sex? Can't you just...?" 

Sherlock growled, giving John that look that told the doctor he was an idiot. 

"You are experienced enough to know there is a difference between satisfying yourself as a temporary measure and indulging in sex with another person. You would agree?" 

John sighed. "I suppose, but it's all the same really. Biologically." 

"What people assume is emotion, is just a chemical reaction. There is a difference John, I assure you. If this is dealt with then the situation should be..." Sherlock paused, closing his eyes as his vision blurred again and his body relaxed as the sedative overcame his ability to focus. He relaxed again and he felt John lean closer as the pheromones became stronger. 

"Are you all right?" John asked, his voice lowering. 

"It is harder for me to suppress when I am also fighting the affects of a sedative. John, I do not wish to do this. Physical sexual relations are something I have no wish to indulge in despite my body's behaviour to the contrary, I much prefer the use of my mind." 

John breathed heavily. The scent remained pleasant, and not overwhelming. 

"I know." 

"And I will not put you into rut to achieve what is required." 

That caused John to rear back. 

"Could you?" 

Sherlock huffed, trying to roll his eyes, which meant his eyes closed and his eyelids felt almost impossible to open. 

"Perhaps it could be achieved while I am in such a state, however it would make for an abuse of trust, which is something I do not wish to do. My worry is that with me incapacitated we cannot continue this case, and the most convenient way to deal with it is to... well... deal with... 'it'. I can ask Mycroft to arrange something, but my preference is to not do so; I trust you." 

It was the most bizarre of compliments, or at least the strangest way to say it, but John knew it was true. His mind flickered with memories, ones that did not involve Sherlock. As he struggled to debate the issue, wondering if it could make the whole situation worse if he gave into Sherlock's request. 

"Maybe... just... my scent might work. You said the last two cycles felt easier, and if it's drug induced then it might wear off... when the drug does." 

Sherlock blinked, considering it. He found the cycles an inconvenience, and it could have been the drug which caused him to ask John to deal with it now. The alpha's presence had made his recent cycles easier, and long term, persuading John to rut might be possible. However, Moriarty had thrown a spanner into those works. It wasn't as if John was adverse to sex, even if his preference was human women. 

If Sherlock pushed the issue now, or attempted to stimulate John into rut without his permission, then it would end in disaster. If he conceded to the terms, then at a later date, he might find John agreeable to the scenario. And, if all else failed, Mycroft could send someone. That however, seemed to be a situation that might result in John feeling obligated to do the job himself - again forcing him into unwanted action. 

All that flashed through Sherlock's mind in a split second, and he slowly nodded. 

"It may seem stronger than usual, it will be easier if I do not attempt to suppress the cycle as I usually do, however, that should not affect you too severely." 

"I think I'll be fine," John said, easing his shoes off his feet and sliding a few layers off before lifting the sheet to climb into the bed. Sherlock immediately eased closer to him, which caused John to raise his eyebrows, but feeling the shivering he wrapped Sherlock up in his arms and burying his face in Sherlock's damp hair inhaled deeply. 

Sherlock settled down and sighed, feeling another ripple though his body. 

"I think I may need another towel." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Even Sherlock felt mildly surprised by the result the proximity caused this time. The sedative still made him feel weak and tired, his eye sight blurred every time he tried opening his eyes, but the heat had died back. John lay behind him on the bed, snuffling into one of the pillows. Sherlock remained settled down next to him, his body relaxed, feeling rather pleased with itself. He would be fine in a few hours, at least able to function. Closing his eyes again Sherlock let his mind drift running over the case, collating his thoughts. 

It was John’s growl that bought his attention to the present and the sudden unfamiliar scent. Sherlock knew it from somewhere and so, it appeared, did John. The growls were low and threatening. Sherlock felt the bed move as John crawled over him and he felt the brush of fur, accompanied by the sound of joints snapping. 

He reached out his hand, connecting with a furred belly, the touch stilled John but he still snarled and snapped, sounding as if he was in full defensive mode. For a moment Sherlock couldn’t fathom what had set John off, he forced his eyes to open, clenching his hand on John’s fur to stop him moving. A dark shadow moved near the doorway of the bedroom, easing sideways, moving so Sherlock couldn’t get a clear view. He rolled, peering across the room, head dropping onto the bed as he looked around John’s hind legs, to see Irene Adler, holding his stolen coat like a shield. 

For a moment Sherlock wondered if he was hallucinating. The subject of his investigation appeared to have obligingly appeared in his room. Her attention was not on Sherlock, not with the huge light coloured werewolf growling at her. She stared at John with wide, frightened eyes. Considering how she had behaved during their previous meeting, her fear seemed quite strange on her. However, Sherlock wasn't surprised, John was an alpha werewolf, they were big and fierce looking when they wanted to be. John's fur stood on end, adding to the bulk of his body. 

Sherlock blinked again, trying to control his body's reactions and the remaining traces of the drug. 

"Don't move," he ordered her, his words slurring slightly. Irene took a breath, pressing herself back against the wardrobe behind her, although she very carefully laid Sherlock’s coat on the back of the nearby chair. John gave another low growl, his body tensing, eyes watching her every move. Sherlock tried to strengthen his grip on the angry wolf. Annoyingly the more he tried to do that more the drug appeared to affect him. 

"John, calm down. John?" 

He risked letting go of the fur to move. John huffed and shifted with him determined, it seemed, to keep himself between Irene and Sherlock. Reaching out, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and leaning over him rubbed his chin on the top of John's neck. Sherlock secured his grip so that if John pounced he would have to drag Sherlock with him. 

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked Irene through gritted teeth as he hung on, realising his strength was not enough on it's own to keep John contained. John was an alpha, the strongest of the castes. He had to get John calm, so he added a soothing growl at the end of his sentence and he nuzzled John’s right ear. 

"I came to return your coat." Her voice was subdued, clearly she had not expected to run into an enraged alpha werewolf. There was no reason for her to know what they were. 

"And that's it?" Sherlock asked. "That seems a fraction excessive when the postal system would make it less personal." 

John growled, leaning into Sherlock. The omega took advantage of the reaction and he eased himself sideways so he could press his chest against John's muzzle. The wolf tried to turn away but he caught Sherlock scent. In the end John turned back, giving a gentle, but uneasy sounding rumble. 

"Stop it John. I'm sorry." 

John gave another rumble, which at least meant that he was listening; the apology had surprised him. 

"The false cycle has raised your protective instincts, and I did not apply any control. It has caused you to react to what you perceive is a potential threat, especially on your own territory. I'm in no danger. I realised Miss Adler drugged me but I am fine, you got me home fine and through the cycle. John, what is the matter? It cannot merely be that. You have never reacted in such a manner, at any potential threat." 

John growled again, snapping at Irene as she shuffled sideways, towards the door. 

“John!” Sherlock warned trying to put himself between John and Irene. She decided to take that as her chance as she was within a step of the doorway. Turning swiftly she dived over the threshold and ran. Sherlock hung on as best he could but John pounced. As John leapt off the bed Sherlock tumbled backward losing his grip and landing in an undignified, still drugged, heap on the floor.

It did tell him how far gone John’s instincts were as he abandoned a stunned Sherlock to chase Irene. Sherlock rolled over, struggling to stay steady. He wobbled violently as his vision completely blurred and he crashed over again. 

“John?!” he tried to shout, he was sure it wasn’t loud enough, certainly not to make an impression. He took a deep breath and attempted to get up again. This time he got onto his hands and knees, and taking another deep breath his mind fired in reaction to the strange scent in the room. Not Irene, not entirely, there was something else, and Sherlock’s instinct didn’t like it. 

He heard a yelp from somewhere else in the flat. Growling he hauled himself upwards, using the chair to get onto his feet, leaning over he smelt the material of his coat, rearing up as the unpleasant scent drifted up from the material. He stumbled backwards, grabbing the door to stay upright. 

“I’m sure I used to be more resistant than this,” he commented before staggering out of his bedroom, wobbling like a newborn calf. 

They had made it as far as the top of the stairs leading to the front door. John loomed over Irene, snarling angrily. Sherlock didn’t exactly jump on him, but he would, constantly, deny that he flopped, crashing onto the wolf. John rumbled but at least he sounded somewhat concerned. Then he snarled again as Irene tried to ease away, wriggling out from under him. Sherlock blinked and hoped that of the three of John’s muzzles swimming around his vision, the middle one was the real one. 

As his hand connected he took a tight grip wincing as he felt his skin snag against one of John’s teeth. That was fine, if it was him, a wolf bite didn’t affect him.

"Has he bitten you? Or scratched you?" Sherlock snapped. Irene shook her head. "Are you sure?" 

Looking her up and down Sherlock couldn't see anything obvious, and there was no smell of blood, but quite frankly through his own strong stench he would be amazed if he could get anything else. 

"I'm sure. He stopped, like he..."

She paused as John growled again, Sherlock tightened his grip and the fact that John didn't so much as flicker caused Sherlock to think that perhaps John was calming down slightly. Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. That didn't get him out of the stalemate he was in, and his mind felt too foggy to calculate all the options. There was only one he could manage now. He tightened his grip on John, who growled. Sherlock glared at Irene. 

"Go. I can hold him."

She looked up at him and then down at John. As she locked eyes with the wolf again he gave a low unfriendly rumble. 

"Now!" Sherlock ordered. He felt John tense as she shuffled away from the pair of them but he didn't fight Sherlock's grip. Sherlock watched her dash for the door and then as it slammed he released John, slumping to the ground as his body gave out. John rumbled in concern and nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's neck, licking him, until Sherlock reached up to bat him away gently. John rumbled again and sniffed intently, he gave another growl, carefully annunciated. 

Sherlock blinked and made an effort to lift his head. "What did you say?" 

John repeated himself. Despite it being growled at him Sherlock knew exactly what John was saying. One word; one name. 

Moriarty.


	19. A Curious Incident

“Detective Inspector?” Mycroft said answering his phone, causing Lestrade to hesitate for a moment as Mycroft made that a greeting, a question and a threat all in the same smooth tone. 

“I’m on my way over to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson called me, there appears to have been some sort of incident.” 

Mycroft sat straighter, dropping the file he had been reading on the desk. “What sort of incident?” 

“I don’t know, apparently they are both fine, at least they are both alive but she wasn’t making much sense, something about Sherlock being insensible and John was a wolf.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “We’re aware of that fact.” 

“I mean he’s shifted,” Lestrade said, not sure if Mycroft was being sarcastic or not; he found it hard to tell, best to just keep telling Mycroft facts. “She made it sound like Sherlock was on drugs.” 

Lestrade winced, that was probably not the best fact to tell Mycroft. There was silence from the other end of the phone. He wondered if he ought to hang up, or keep talking, or stay quiet and wait for something. Best option, stay quiet. If Mycroft asked him anything he could answer, or not be offended if Mycroft hung up on him. 

“How close are you?” 

“About ten minutes away.” 

“With the siren or without?” 

“Without, it’s hardly police business.” 

“You don’t know that, be there in five. I won’t be far behind you.” 

Lestrade waited until Mycroft had hung up on him before throwing his phone across the car, so it cracked against the passenger door and flew off into the foot well. He gave a snarl and flipped on the siren, putting his foot down, easing his way through a red light and overtaking a line of cars that struggled to get out of his way. He supposed it didn’t matter if he reached Baker Street in five minutes or not, as long as he managed to beat Mycroft. 

Four minutes later he achieved his aim. He was outside the flat and Mycroft's car nowhere in sight. Nor was his scent lingering in the air as he pushed open the front door and stepped into the hallway. He took the stairs two at a time and pulled up short in the doorway of the living room as John snarled at him. 

"John!" an incredibly boneless looking Sherlock admonished from the sofa while Mrs Hudson tried to get him to drink some water. John's ears tilted slightly and he gave an apologetic rumble. Lestrade frowned. 

"Can't you change back?" 

"Not at present it appears, he was highly agitated so it may take time for the adrenaline to wear off," Sherlock said. 

"Have you taken drugs?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock's head flopped back on the arm of the sofa, so he could stare up at Lestrade. John gave a loud growl of disapproval. 

"Not intentionally. However, it's had some unfortunate affects." 

"Such as what?" 

"A false cycle for a start," Sherlock said, lifting his head, trying to focus. "And I appear to have someone acquired another omega's scent some way or another, and it's on my coat." Sherlock’s voice sounded highly offended by the last fact. 

Lestrade frowned, moving closer to Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had perched on the edge of the sofa but she shuffled backwards slightly as Lestrade crouched down by Sherlock's head, he leant in and gave a tentative sniff, leaning in closer he took a deeper breath. The scent was thick, the sweat and pheromones heavy in the air. Although he had never scented Sherlock during his cycle Lestrade knew his basic scent well enough. He frowned, there was something strange about it now, it lay under the smell he was used to. Sherlock’s scent had always seemed a little odd; Greg’s newfound werewolf senses had told him that from the start, once he had learnt to interpret the reactions and feelings. He guessed that was the clash of male and omega. Now, he wasn’t sure what he smelt. He could assume that Sherlock’s scent merely grew stronger in his cycle, radiating off him to attract another wolf, but Lestrade didn’t know if it changed in any way. Under the circumstances he could have asked but Sherlock probably wouldn’t react entirely well. 

He tried inhaling again, leaning in further to press his nose into Sherlock torso. Which was, quite naturally, the moment Mycroft appeared. He moved silently over the threshold and Lestrade jerked his head up as he heard the alpha's voice. 

"Don't let me interrupt." 

Mycroft stepped into the room and John bared his teeth. Glancing down at him Mycroft returned the gesture. In human form it might not have looked as impressive, but the alpha's general air of menace gave it weight. John's ears shifted on his head and he inched closer to the sofa, as Lestrade struggled to his feet to get away from Sherlock, almost treading on and tripping over John in the process. Mrs Hudson didn't move, watching the scene from her position perched on the sofa by Sherlock's feet. The dynamics in the room were not the same to her, although she could smell Sherlock's sweat ridden, unwashed body, it caused no physical reaction, or any feelings in her unconscious mind. And she didn't feel wary of Mycroft, as far as she was concerned he was merely Sherlock's brother, a little bossy, and determined to control his younger brother's life, but she could understand that, all things considered. She knew they were all werewolves, but the only sight she had ever had of that was now, with John pacing around in wolf form. 

"I think he's all right, Mr Holmes. He just seemed a little incoherent." 

She patted Sherlock's leg reassuringly, which caused him to frown in confusion and he stared at her through slightly glassy eyes. 

"Tea would be lovely," Mycroft said to her, without looking at her. She started in surprise and blinked. 

"Oh, yes, of course." 

Mycroft didn't acknowledge her as she got up and walked behind him, but his shoulders shifted back by a minuscule degree as she brushed close; closer than any wolf would dare. If it had been a wolf he would have whirled round and lashed out. But she was human, so he retained the strict level of decorum he expected of himself, and his pack. John saw the flicker and bared his teeth again as he lingered by the sofa. Mycroft ignored him, leaning over his brother, winding his fingers into Sherlock's hair and tilting his head to the side, exposing his throat, he crouched down burying his face into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock swallowed heavily as he felt Mycroft's tongue swipe across his skin and he winced as Mycroft's hand tightened on his hair. John gave a low rumble of anger and Sherlock tried to raise his hand to stop John from intervening. 

"All right John." 

Mycroft ignored the interaction, sniffing lower, releasing his hold on Sherlock's hair so he could ease his way down the sofa. John growled in his ear as Mycroft's exploration reached Sherlock's groin. Mycroft paused and turned to glare at the wolf. 

"You have been with him, but you haven't had sex." 

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped. John backed that up snapping his teeth at Mycroft. Mycroft turned back to Sherlock grabbing his wrist and pulling on his sleeve. Sherlock tensed, trying to free himself. 

"I didn't take anything by choice! Your Miss Adler injected me." 

"She's hardly mine," Mycroft countered. "Where is the injection site?" 

Sherlock huffed and again tried to free his arm.

"Enough, Sherlock, even on a good day you cannot match me physically, either tell me, or I will have Lestrade hold you down while I strip you and find it myself." 

Mrs Hudson almost dropped the tea tray as she heard the tail end of that and John's thunderous growl. Lestrade made a mild getaway by dashing to steady the tray and take it from her hands. Sherlock glanced up at her and then mumbled something to Mycroft. John growled again as Mycroft sat Sherlock up to pull at his pyjamas and expose his shoulder to look at the wound. 

"What the hell?" Lestrade said putting the tray down and staring at Sherlock's shoulder. The skin around the injection site had turned red and a small patch of fur lay in the centre. Sherlock hissed in pain as Mycroft touched it. 

"That doesn't normally happen to bred wolves." Lestrade said. John gave a worried grumble and jumped onto the sofa, pushing his nose against the wound, Sherlock hissed again. 

"In actual fact, it should never happen to bred wolves, only bitten, around their bite. You should know that Detective Inspector.”

His hand unconsciously moved to rub the left side of his torso. John gave a questioning murmur. 

"The bite infected," Sherlock informed him. "Sometimes the fur can grow under the skin, which is not a good scenario. It needs the layer of skin to be cut away first then if the fur continues to spread it also has to be removed."

"Enough," Mycroft ordered in a low, soft tone at the same time as Lestrade said. 

"Shut up, Sherlock." 

Lestrade then ducked down slightly as Mycroft turned to look at him archly. "Sorry." 

"It's why when Lestrade changes," Sherlock informed John, ignoring the other two. "He has a small bald area on his left side, where the fur had to be cut. I think it might have been the consequence of the drugs that I..." 

"Shut up, Sherlock!" Mycroft and Lestrade ordered in different tones but at the same time. John looked startled and went back to snuffling around the infected area, mindful of the fact that Sherlock found it painful. Sherlock huffed irritably and flapped against Mycroft in revenge. He took Sherlock’s weight almost absently, arranging his brother against him so he wouldn’t slip, and couldn’t get away without an argument. 

“We can safely assume that it is something to do with what he was given. I heard the information Sherlock gave you,” Mycroft said to Lestrade. “His scent is marred by another’s and it is very deeply ingrained. John’s scent is with it, but only as a thin layer. 

“You were with him through the heat?” Mycroft asked the wolf. John gave an affirming growl. Mycroft nodded curtly. 

“That would explain that. The other scent seems to be omega, it is hard to notice under the strength of the heat, but is it recognised?” 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock mumbled. “It might explain John’s agitation.” 

Mycroft glanced at John, who sat next to Sherlock on the sofa, resting his muzzle against his upper arm. 

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “Although, the attending wolf does not often shift during a cycle unless the omega does.” 

“I didn’t. Irene Adler set him off, she returned my coat, which has also been coated with hormones. I don’t think she realised that.” 

“Was she bitten?” Mycroft glowered at John. 

“No,” Sherlock said. “John didn’t bite her. But it clearly indicates a connection between Moriarty and her, although she might not be aware of it.”

Mycroft contemplated that. “But clearly Moriarty wants us aware of it, and I presume he is familiar with the affects of sedatives on a wolf’s system. Although he may just have information of your susceptibility.”

“I am not susceptible,” Sherlock objected. He was ignored. 

“How?” Lestrade asked. 

Mycroft shrugged, shifting Sherlock upwards slightly. “The pack moves around, and they talk. Sherlock quite often takes up a good portion of the gossip.” 

“Don’t they have anything better to do?” Sherlock grumbled. 

“It’s appears not, brother,” Mycroft says. “I am aware it happens, however much I endeavour to remain in control of it. Sit up!” 

Sherlock deliberately flopped again, almost sliding off the sofa. With an irritated huff Mycroft sat him back, letting him sprawl , ensuring he would stay put before standing up. 

“You are doing that on purpose! The first thing we need to do is wash you, and then that patch requires a hot compress. You may go.” 

Lestrade looked surprised at the sudden order. “Are you sure, I can stay and…?” 

“You know some of the history of Sherlock’s cases, and therefore Moriarty’s involvement however tenuous?” 

“Yes,” Lestrade said. 

“Start there. I will have Anthea send you some further information when I have a moment to instruct her. It would appear his intentions are aimed directly at Sherlock and he will no doubt know that his actions have compromised Sherlock’s guardian alpha.” 

John growled at him. Mycroft looked down, unbuttoning his jacket as he spoke, carefully removing and folding it before placing it over the back of the nearest chair. 

“It appears the army has taught you enough discipline to have prevented you from biting that woman, but that may not have been the aim. Moriarty put you into rut, if you had smelt him on Sherlock it could have caused a reaction. Only the omega knows how deeply the connection goes when an alpha goes into rut. I’d rather like to take as much of the scent off Sherlock now and ensure he does not need the infection area clearing."

While he talked he also pulled off his waistcoat and again folding it carefully placed that over his jacket before unfastening his cufflinks and rolling up his shirt sleeves. 

“Shall we deal with the immediate and leave the speculating to when you are able to actually make a contribution.” 

John rumbled at that, ears dropping slightly. 

“You are bitten,” Mycroft said condescendingly. “You are not expected to have the same level of control as us. I'll run the bath." 

Mycroft strolled out of the room. Lestrade shrugged his coat back on and fumbled in his pocket for his car keys. 

"I had better go." 

Sherlock lifted his head and waved in the vague direction of the laptop on the nearby table. 

"You can work from here." 

"Not for some of it, plus the point being he doesn't want me here while he deals with you." 

Sherlock snorted, and John gave a low grumble, looking a little worried. His eyes displaying clear concern. In the background they heard the sound of running water. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder and then looked back at them. Both of them stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He focused his gaze on John, trying to look as reassuring as possible. 

"He will look after him."


	20. Unexpected Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of ran away with me, I probably got a bit too far into Mycroft and Sherlock's background, but I kind of liked it, and it expanded a little bit further than I expected. There is some non-consensual references to sex.

It was all he said before he turned away and went down the stairs, pausing long enough to inform Mrs Hudson to not bother taking any tea up. 

On hearing the door slam John whined lightly and licked Sherlock's face. Reaching up Sherlock patted him gently on the head. 

"He's probably right, but that's no reason to cooperate."

He attempted to stand up and ended up flopping onto the floor. John jumped down from the sofa, nudging him gently, looking up as Mycroft walked back from the bathroom. He looked down at the prone Sherlock in exasperation. 

"You really do just like to make things difficult, brother dear." 

Sherlock smiled up at him and Mycroft rolled his eyes. Reaching down he hoisted Sherlock onto his feet. 

"You can either walk, or I will carry you." 

Reading the clear threat Sherlock steadied his feet. John followed, staying on their heels, determined that Mycroft wasn't about to shut him out of the bathroom. He wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock even if, for the moment, he wasn't of much other use. Sherlock had pointed out the anxiety was preventing his body from calming into a change but he couldn't help it. 

As it was, his fears were unfounded. Mycroft made no attempt to close the door, or prevent John from following. John felt a moment of worry as Sherlock flinched back away from the bath, staring at the steaming water in something like horror. John eased closer, peering over at the bath, it looked warm, and Mycroft had even put some bubbles in it. Hosting his paws onto the side, almost slipping sideways as he struggled for traction on the slippery surface, he bobbed his nose down towards the water. 

"John, there is nothing wrong with it. It's nothing to do with the problem we're having." 

John slipped his paws off the edge of the bath and stared up at the two men. Sherlock had his eyes closed, face slightly pinched. Mycroft had managed to relieve him of the rumpled pyjama top and now he eased Sherlock's pyjama bottoms down over his hips with one hand, steadying Sherlock with the other. Sherlock seemed a little more focused now, and didn't seem happy about it. 

Still, Mycroft managed to settle him in the bath, he had already placed a towel at one end for Sherlock to rest his head on, he sagged into the bath and gave a ghost of a smirk as he felt John's nose against his cheek. John turned his head to watch Mycroft as he lathered up a sponge.

John sat down, rested his chin on the edge of the bath, close to Sherlock’s head, watching intently although neither man appeared to be particularly conscious of him. 

Mycroft started washing Sherlock down, frowning darkly as he looked at the scars that covered his brother’s body. As he scanned them, his mind reminded him of when each one had been obtained. The most recent ones had occurred with the two rogue betas who had instigated two seemingly random attacks on Sherlock. None of this appeared to be random, and this latest development seemed no different. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped as Sherlock, with a well placed slip of his arm, splashed water onto Mycroft’s shirt. John huffed, in a way that could have either been humour or exasperation. It was, Mycroft reflected, more than likely humour, since John appeared to be indulgent of many of Sherlock’s antics. Mycroft chose to ignore them both, as best he could, and rinsed the sponge before applying more soap. 

John watched him work slowly and methodically, checking Sherlock’s body intently. At his best guess, John assumed he was looking for any further needle marks, not that there were any. John knew the extent of Sherlock’s drug use in previous years, so he supposed he couldn’t blame Mycroft’s cynicism, and at the moment he couldn’t vocalise to defend Sherlock. The lingering scent of Moriarty still rippled through his mind. John huffed as he thought about that and Sherlock’s previous comments. Getting up he wandered out of the bathroom trotting into the bedroom. Since they had ended up sprawled on the landing he had not left Sherlock's side, worry and guilt keeping him close to the omega wolf. 

As he wandered into the bedroom he sniffed, picking up the anomalous scent in the air. He looked at the coat, innocently laid over the back of the chair; he eased himself towards it as if it might have been an unexploded bomb. It was in a way. Stretching out he sniffed one corner before rearing back as the combined scents assailed him. Moriarty's scent combined with Sherlock's. In a way Sherlock's was stronger. It would naturally be deeper inlaid in the fibres, Sherlock wore the coat all the time, but somehow Moriarty had got hold of it long enough to interfere with it. Stretching forward again John sniffed, then became a little bolder as he controlled his reactions, a desire to bite the material savagely, and rather enthusiastically hump it. The two contrasting urges seemed to cancel each other out and he was left just feeling rattled. He started to wonder if the scent was the real reason he attacked Irene, as he thought about her, something else just seemed to rile him. 

Shaking his head he went back to the job in hand. Stepping closer he sniffed. He knew Moriarty's scent very well, it haunted his memories. This time, it didn't seem quite real; there was a flicker of sterility about it. The best that John could deduce at that moment was that Moriarty had not been in direct contact with the coat, but had somehow impregnated the material. 

He sat down, debating it. Sherlock had been infected with his scent by a syringe. Clearly a cocktail of drugs, with a synthesized pheromone trace within it, or it had been extracted from Moriarty, somehow, and mixed into the drug. Similar could have been done with the coat, using something to spray onto the fabric. John snorted, his nose tingling and he got up and walked back to the bathroom. It was probably best that he didn't overdo the scenting, he was trying to calm down and settle his body so he could turn back. As Sherlock pointed out a run would sort the problem, causing endorphins to flow, energy to be expended and exercise relaxed the body. John knew all that, but he could hardly go trotting around London in daylight. The flat wasn't big enough for him to do anything but chase his own tail, so all he could do was wait it out. 

Returning to the bathroom he found Mycroft checking Sherlock's right ankle and foot for needle marks. John gave a growl. Mycroft looked up and glared at him. Sherlock attempted to extract his leg from Mycroft's grip which did no good and simply caused him to slide down in the bath. That at least meant Mycroft had to let go to prevent Sherlock from inhaling water. 

"I'm not on anything, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice sounded stronger and more coherent. 

"Fine," Mycroft snapped. He reached his hand into the water and yanked out the plug. "Once you are out I'll treat that wound. With any luck, we can clear it now. Get up, Sherlock." 

Sherlock had clearly got bored of his defiance because he complied immediately, looking steadier as Mycroft unfolded a towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. Stepping back he let Sherlock clamber out on his own, but he stayed near enough should Sherlock topple again. Once he was assured that Sherlock seemed steady he backed up, John dodged out of the way to avoid being trodden on and he snarled up at Mycroft. Mycroft ignored him, although judging by his body language it took effort. 

“I’ll get everything ready in the kitchen, I presume you have first aid supplies?” Mycroft looked around the bathroom. 

“I’m not sure where John has put it, he took the box out from under the kitchen sink.” 

Mycroft looked down at John enquiringly. John turned and walked out of the bathroom, which had very little storage space and therefore couldn’t really accommodate a decent medical kit as well as everything else, and headed upstairs to his room with Mycroft following him. John trotted in and went to the chest of drawers pressing his nose against the bottom drawer. Taking the hint Mycroft opened it to find a decent amount of first aid equipment, and some less standard items as well, he looked at the needles and syringes, as well as the medication with concern. 

“I presume Sherlock doesn’t know this is here.” 

John didn’t know if Sherlock did or didn’t, but he shook his head, slightly baffled as to why everyone believed that Sherlock might lapse and start using drugs again. The reason he had stopped the last time seemed to be enough to keep him off it and from the way Sherlock had told the story he could have easily stopped in any of his rehab stints but in the end he had simply chosen not to. Mycroft ignored most of that equipment; he picked out a couple of large dressings and some cotton wool. 

Following Mycroft back down the stairs and into the kitchen they found Sherlock already in there wearing a clean set of pyjama bottoms and peering at something under the microscope. Mycroft put the items down on the table and started to fill the kettle. John rested his paws on the edge of Sherlock’s chair and peered at the wound. It still looked inflamed but the hair at the centre seemed to have thinned slightly, although what remained looked sticky, as if something had leaked from the wound. 

“Do you possess any salt in this excuse for a kitchen?” 

Sherlock looked up, his expression baffled. John hopped down and went to hoist up onto the counter and nose the corner of the correct cupboard. It eased open slightly and Mycroft took over removing the salt from the bottom shelf. He poured some hot water into a bowl and dumped some salt into it. John gave a questioning murmur, he had some disinfectant upstairs. 

Mycroft seemed to read his mind, and the sound. He didn't look down as he said. 

"The best things to use are generally natural items. A werewolf heals better than a human although the two systems are similar. I do not believe the reaction is that serious that it requires anything further than surface treatment."

"I want samples from the area, fur, excretions and also skin," Sherlock demanded over his shoulder pointing to the slides laid out nearby. A pair of nail scissors, a scalpel and a swab lay next to them. 

"Very well," Mycroft said swiftly gathering the samples and handing them to Sherlock. Mycroft then dipped a handful of cotton wool into the salt water and pressed it against Sherlock's back. He gave a visible wince as he felt the hot water but then he followed up with a sigh of relief as the heat penetrated the inflamed skin. John paced up and down behind Mycroft, watching with interest. 

"The heat should bring any fluid to the surface and also opens the pores, it should hopefully, in this case, release the hairs," Mycroft said. Sherlock tried to look at the hair samples through the microscope at the same time and ignore what was happening to him as he wrote something down in the nearby notebook. 

"I suppose I could try and get a DNA sample from these. Molly could send them though to the lab."

"To what end?" Mycroft asked dampening the cotton wool before reapplying it. Sherlock sat back while Mycroft did that and then leant forward again to peer at the microscope. 

"The hairs do not appear to be entirely mine. The colour is wrong, plus they look finer than my natural fur." 

"You are looking at a few hairs compared to a pelt. Of course they will not look the same." 

John watched them as they started to bicker, bitching at each other while Sherlock allowed Mycroft to treat him, and at the same time tried to ignore the fact he was doing it. Mycroft eventually ended the argument by growling gently and burrowing his face in Sherlock's hair before moving down to lick the scruff of his neck. John sat back feeling the quiver in his body that he had learnt to interpret. He was ready to change back. He gave a rumble and got up to leave the room, deciding to go into the bathroom rather than upstairs into his bedroom. It kept him closer.

If he had reverted back while in the room neither man would have acknowledged him. They would have averted their eyes from the sight, out of respect. John wondered if either of them really respected him, but a change was a revered moment. If they didn't think of it in that manner then it became something to fear. 

He lay curled up by the edge of the bath while his limbs slowly got used to his human form. Moving slowly was the only way to handle it, his joints ached and he felt like he had run a marathon. He slowly got to his hands and knees, easing himself upwards slowly. Once he was on his feet he grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it around his waist heading back into the living room. 

Mycroft was in the process of pulling on his jacket, straightening himself up carefully. As John returned he turned to look at him. The aggressive sparks flared in their minds but they both successfully ignored them, thanks to Sherlock's scent in the room.

"Ah Dr Watson," Mycroft said turning to the mirror to straighten his tie. "I'm sure I can leave the rest of Sherlock's care to you. I would advise compressing the area again in two hours, and assess again in four. I'll be sending you some files you may be interested in, make sure you read them." 

John frowned in confusion as Mycroft swept out without another word. He turned to look at Sherlock, who seemed to be intently studying the samples. 

"Right," John said. "Are you all right?" 

Sherlock stopped what he was doing to look up at John. "I believe so, I think my body did not appreciate the pheromones which produced the infection on my shoulder as well as the extreme reaction." Sherlock sat back on the stool. "Whether that was Moriarty's intention, or if he just felt like leaving a calling card we can't know. All we do know is, we need to be careful. This was a case that Mycroft brought to us, but it has connection to Moriarty." 

"He did say he gave us a brief glimpse of what he had going on," John said. "Maybe he's trying to hint at the fact that he can control what we are doing. What sort of files is Mycroft sending me?" 

Sherlock's eyes distanced. "That would be worrying." He said in answer to one thing and then turning back to his microscope added. "Medical files I should imagine, I think he's of a mind to make you pack physician." 

"What?!" 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Mycroft heard the yelp as the chauffer opened the door. He didn't look at his driver instead he slid into the back of the car. It had driven up the moment he had stepped from the door, waiting patiently for him while he dealt with Sherlock. 

Anthea didn't look up as he sat down. 

"Send the medical files on the pack to John Watson's email, although considering the state of his laptop, and his human nature, maybe send the hard copies to him also." 

"Very well," Anthea said. "He did a good job on Blake's leg." 

"On both fronts." 

Anthea smiled. "He might not look so, but he's full of fire."

"It needs controlling." 

"Sherlock will do that." 

Mycroft said nothing as the car started to move through the streets, back to the safety of his job, and the club. He could be remote then, he controlled things from a distance. The pack regarded Sherlock as a rogue wolf, and nothing could have been further from the truth, Mycroft said to himself. The rogue wolf lay in himself. He had no wish to be in the pack, but nor did he want to leave it to anyone else. Mycroft liked control and he had worked the situation to his advantage. Sherlock knew his part, even if he played it unconsciously. He clenched his jaw, remembering the look on Sherlock's face as Mycroft had taken him to clean up. 

That was a tightly locked room in Sherlock's mind palace, but one he couldn't seem to erase. The way the pack had treated him grated on Sherlock's mind and he behaved as if he didn't need, or want, other people in his life. Omega's enjoyed company and interaction and, in a way, both Sherlock and Moriarty sought it, and found it, the locations were just unusual. Sherlock consulting with the police and Moriarty heading a criminal empire. 

It was dealing with the pack where both of them struggled, Moriarty had been rejected and Sherlock had been kept, and both of them had suffered for it. Mycroft knew that, and he had been part of that, he had used Sherlock, in protecting him he had carefully orchestrated a gradual take over of the pack. He had begun that particular plan the day when Sherlock had been twelve and he had interrupted that sexual assault and he concluded it seven years later. On the occasion that the Taylor's had hosted a pack meeting in their Norfolk home. At that point Ralph Taylor Senior led the pack with the full intention that his son would carry on. Pack's worked like that, if they were spread far enough apart that the change of leader was merely a formality. That might have worked this time, had Mycroft not had his eye on the prize. He wanted it for his own gain and amusement, if nothing else, to prove that he could do so. But it also meant that Sherlock would be safer, he would require less of his attention. 

However, to get to that point, Mycroft had to make Sherlock dependant on him, as a safety net. As he had looked at Sherlock as a baby, he hadn’t understood the fuss, when he was older, he still didn’t. Granted, Sherlock was a random freak of nature, a collision of genes that was so rare it’s appearance had shocked. But in that respect Mycroft had found something he could mould, and train. Sherlock’s mind was almost as good as his, partly down to the fact that Mycroft had honed it for him. It was just such a shame that Sherlock’s nature also came with an instinct for rebellion. Moriarty was clearly a true reflection of what could have happened without the tight control that Mycroft exerted. 

He had arrived at the Taylor’s house discreetly, no one saw him enter, and make his way to the guest room housing Sherlock. Sherlock’s bedding had been rumpled and the distinct smell of his cycle lingered in them. He had been removed from the bed, and if any of the adult members of the pack knew about it, they had not concerned themselves with it. If he had been female, Sherlock would have been checked on, although the young male pack members would have been encouraged to circle. If a female had wanted to try all the males out, it was her prerogative. Sherlock, however, would not wish them near, and Mycroft knew where they were. 

Making his way to the glade by the river he easily confirmed Sherlock hadn’t been willing since he was handcuffed, with a bag over his head. They were probably not stupid enough to try oral sex since Sherlock would bite. Mycroft clamped his jaw at the sight of Ralph Taylor Junior fucking his little brother, and there was a good chance Sherlock had been a virgin before this afternoon. Mycroft watched the other seven youths on the bank, alphas and betas - four of whom he had tackled before - and Ralph and Blake Taylor he had threatened on several occasions. Mycroft didn’t know the last alpha, but decided immediately that he didn’t like the way he was watching the scene. Very slowly he moved silently through the undergrowth, staying in the shadows. He had been away for the last four years, only flitting into Sherlock’s life occasionally, which had been increasingly stressful for the omega as he developed. 

As he got upwind of the scene Mycroft waited a little longer. There was no point diving in, the damage had already been done to Sherlock, Mycroft needed to play this scene carefully. He was strong but against the brutish alphas, he needed to think and command the scene, rather than just relying on his strength. 

He felt the breeze against his back, carrying his scent. Ralph Taylor’s head jerked up, eyes widening and he pulled out of Sherlock, sitting back on his heels. For a moment the others were confused, until they all scented Mycroft’s presence. 

Once all their heads had raised and their full attention focused on the undergrowth he calmly walked out, skirting the area, along the bank of the river. He could avoid going too close to the clustered group and although he walked a wide circuit it was the best route to move directly to Sherlock. Mycroft had the others in his peripheral vision as he glared at Ralph. 

Even with the others, he was wary enough of Mycroft to scrabble upwards and back away from the prone omega. Sherlock's head had lifted slightly, and although unable to see he could probably pick up traces of Mycroft's arrival. Or if not he could at least make a logical deduction as to what stopped them. 

Having stood up Ralph had glanced at the group and then turned back to Mycroft. 

"You can't stop us." 

"I just have," Mycroft said. "I arrived, you stopped." 

Ralph frowned, looking baffled. Mycroft tilted his head to assess the others. Nobody looked like they wanted to move, all except the new alpha. Mycroft played that to his advantage, taking the final step to be at Sherlock's side and he crouched down, giving a low growl which Sherlock would identify as him. Then Mycroft took Sherlock by the arm, getting him up from his prone position onto his knees. He gave a few of the cuts and bruises that Sherlock had received a cursory look over, leaning in to lick a bleeding graze on Sherlock’s right shoulder. Sherlock gave a low growl in greeting. 

“Stay calm, little brother,” Mycroft murmured. “You’re best to shift if you want to help,” he added, his hand ran down Sherlock’s arm to his hand, pressing something into it. He felt Sherlock’s fingers move, taking hold of the sliver of metal, turning it in his hand to examine it and ease it into position to pick the locks of the handcuffs. 

No wolf would risk a shift when restrained. There was the possibility that the hand and wrist would shrink enough to pull free of the cuff before the shift went further, but if it did not the resulting damage would be phenomenal, not only could the joint dislocate but tendon and muscle could tear to the point of permanent disability. It was one reason that they had taken Sherlock from the house. Sex was one thing, restraint during was another matter entirely. Mycroft stayed crouched and turned to the rest of the group and at the same time, to make it easier, and he because had also picked up the strong fragrance on the cloth bag, which would prevent Sherlock from knowing who was present, he plucked the material off Sherlock’s head. 

The wolves fidgeted nervously, Sherlock inched round to prevent anyone from seeing what he was doing, eyes scanning the scene briefly, pausing on the strange alpha. 

“This is over,” Mycroft said. Ralph smirked. 

“Oh come on, it’s not like he isn’t used to it. We all know what they say about you two.” 

So did Mycroft. For years the rumour that he had been using Sherlock, even before his first cycle, had been sent around the pack, and had probably been the justification for anyone else wanting a go. And the reason that Mycroft protected him so viciously. 

“What people say is one thing, the truth is another,” Mycroft said as he slowly stood, turning to face them, but staying in front of Sherlock. 

“Well, I haven’t had my go yet,” the unknown alpha complained. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 

"You intend to challenge me for that?" 

"Oh just leave it, Victor," Ralph said, he had looked at the others but no one wanted to make the first move. Unless he could persuade them to move together to take out Mycroft they were stuck. Even then Mycroft would likely do someone some damage; plus they didn't take Sherlock lightly either. 

Mycroft didn't turn his head as Sherlock freed his arms and then dived down the bank, and a split second later he had disappeared into the undergrowth. Ralph had smirked, thinking for a moment he had an advantage. 

“Looks like little brother has abandoned you.” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, changing his stance slightly. “So it would appear.” 

And appearance was everything. The standoff held for a moment, until a minute later Sherlock shot out from the bushes and knocked Blake Taylor and Ryan Daniels into the river before turning to snap at the others. Mycroft broke Ralph's nose and a couple of arms and legs on the other wolves before they all retreated. 

"Sherlock!" he had snapped at his brother to prevent him from chasing, when they decided to cut their losses and run. Sherlock had more power to maim in wolf form, and none of them could turn in time to even up the game. It was over, and they all knew it. 

The incident hadn't been much in itself, and seemed to cause the visiting alpha Victor to increase his interest in Sherlock. However, it was only the start of Mycroft's plan. Once he had got Sherlock back to the house, it was the first time - of many that followed - that he checked over, bathed and treated his little brother. He had left him safely tucked up in the guest bedroom, where Mycroft also planned to stay just in case, he went down to greet the others for dinner. And that was his moment, when he casually said. 

"I've told Sherlock to stay in his room."

One simple sentence, and the fact that he had sedated Sherlock to ensure he did do as he was told was neither here nor there, no one else knew that. But he had stilled the room with the fact he had commanded an omega. Not as his mate, they were not an alpha/omega pair in that sense. But such a move, removing one wolf from a pack meeting in any form spoke of power. It was a trifling thing that could have been dismissed, but Mycroft watched Ralph Taylor Senior glance to his son, now sporting the damage Mycroft had inflicted and Mycroft saw the worry. 

The balance of power had shifted in his favour, and Mycroft had made sure it stayed that way. 

Anthea glanced at him as Mycroft’s mind returned from his musing, although he didn’t get out quick enough before his mind told him it wasn’t long after that incident that Sherlock drifted into his habit, fighting his own nature, and everyone else, deluding himself that if he did what he did, let himself drift deliberately then he was in control of it. That he allowed the pack, and the rest of the world to inflict what they wanted, that Sherlock knew what was happening, and that his destiny was his own to command. 

Trouble was, Mycroft thought, it wasn’t control, it was blame.


	21. Experiments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if the extraction of substances is technically accurate but it was convenient for what I wanted it to do.

“Can you feel it?” 

John was trying not to look at what he was doing as his naked flatmate balanced on his hands and knees on his chair while John probed around his lower spine and coccyx. Some of the things he ended up doing around Sherlock ended up seeming close to ludicrous. 

“I think so… or not really… really.” 

Molly heard them talking as she made her way up the stairs, Mrs Hudson behind her. She turned towards the living room, pulling her coat off as she walked. She reached the doorway and slammed to a halt. 

“Oh my God!!”

“Oh goodness!!” 

John then almost fell over as both women yelped and he took a violent step back. In Mrs Hudson's case she also almost dropped the tea tray she was carrying. They stared at the scene in shock. Molly clapped a hand over her eyes, and the landlady spun round and started to shuffle towards the kitchen. John grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown and flung it over him. Sherlock frowned, looking irritated at the lot of them. 

"Sorry boys," Mrs Hudson stammered. "But you really should leave that in the bedroom."

"We're not..." John spluttered. Sherlock made an attempt to wrap the material around himself and he sat back on his heels. 

"I was merely instructing John as to the location of my supra-caudal gland."

"It's really none of my business what you get up to in private," Mrs Hudson informed them. Molly splayed her fingers slightly and realising Sherlock had at least been partly covered she lowered her hand, her face feeling furiously hot. Sherlock rolled his eyes, decided what Mrs Hudson said was true and tuned her out, talking to John, and also Molly, instead. 

“I will shift before either of you attempt to extract anything, the gland is easier to locate in wolf form, as it is effectively on the tail.” 

“Now you say that! Couldn't have I just looked for it then,” John didn’t sound entirely certain of their plan. 

"And how would I even begin to tell you what you are looking for?" 

“What if I don’t get anything? Wouldn’t it be easier to try on me?” 

Molly hung her coat up for something to do and looked around warily, listening to the conversation. 

Sherlock sniffed. “You’re human John. You can instigate a change but your physiology is essentially still human, you don’t have the same level of scent gland, plus omegas tend to have larger ones compared to alphas and betas.” 

John snorted. “Did you used to make Mycroft jealous?” 

Sherlock sniggered, “if all else failed I’d add urine as well.” 

“So didn’t want to know that!” John said turning to Molly. "Thanks for coming.” 

Molly shrugged. “It’s fine. I brought the extra equipment you asked for. What are we doing exactly?” 

“Trying to replicate the chemical that Moriarty appears to have used on me. Logic dictates he used excretions from his supra-caudal gland. It is located at the base of my spine in human form and on my tail as a wolf.” 

“And don't you have glands anywhere else?" Molly asked. 

"Naturally," Sherlock said. "However, the supra-caudal gland gives off indications of mood and sexual receptivity. It is the most important one on an omega, hence why it tends to be larger, which is why it would be the one that Moriarty extracted the hormones from. It is the one we need." 

"Okay, but if we hurt you I want you to indicate it. We might not even get this right, neither of us know that much," John said. 

“Enough to suffice.” 

“Maybe we should have asked Mycroft before he left,” John said. 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock snapped. Keeping the material wrapped around his body Sherlock got up off the couch and headed towards his bedroom. That was enough of an indication that Sherlock wanted an end to that part of the conversation and left John with the feeling that Mycroft would not allow this experiment to take place. 

"I'll just change." 

Sherlock went off and pushed his bedroom door almost closed. John listened to the sounds, some grunts and snuffles, and a thud before he saw Sherlock’s dark muzzle ease through the crack of the door and push it open. He trotted out towards John, his light eyes a sharp contrast to his dark fur. John finished rummaging, locating the finest needle he had before turning to Sherlock. Molly snapped on a pair of gloves and then held a pair out to John. 

“Do you need them?” 

John contemplated it. “I suppose I should, although, it’s not like I can be infected again.” 

“Isn’t there the issue of cross-contamination?” Molly asked. Sherlock tossed his head and snarled. Molly looked startled. 

“That’s a no,” John said calmly. “I know the story, that if you are bitten by one wolf then fluid from another will cause a reaction, similar to the one Sherlock just had, but it’s not true.” 

“Oh,” Molly said, sounding disappointed. “I read a few articles, out of interest, but it sounds like none of them are true.” 

“Some bits possibly are,” John mused. “But as there are differences between bred and bitten wolves the facts probably get muddled. It doesn’t help that werewolves don’t like telling people anything.” 

“But you know some things. I mean, Sherlock must have told you,” Molly said picking out various bits of equipment. 

“Some, not all. I know about the cross-contamination worry. New bites infect when the virus gets in, but again that’s not always and most of the time it’s easy to deal with, and infections do cause furring. Why haven’t you ever asked Sherlock, if you were interested?” John asked. 

Sherlock, who had been sniffing around Molly’s bag to check what she had brought, whipped his head round in shock, glaring at John. John ignored him and Sherlock settled for glaring at Molly instead. She fidgeted nervously. 

"I... I didn't like to ask." 

John glanced at Sherlock, his eyes intense and teeth slightly bared. No, he concluded, she probably didn't. He left the conversation there and pushed Sherlock's hip to get him to move over slightly. 

“Ok, let me see if I can find it before we try and extract anything from it." 

Sherlock turned round, presenting his rear end to John who carefully took his tail and probed around the dock for what he was looking for. Sherlock had already told him it was closer to the surface in this form. The wolf huffed as John probed and eased forward in the hint for John to look further down his tail. 

A little way down he found a patch of fur that felt slightly coarser and the skin underneath tougher. 

"Right, I think that's it." He glanced uncertainly at Molly and then leant forward, putting his nose to Sherlock's tail and sniffing along it. It was the point he had located where the scent was at it's strongest. Molly watched with fascination, especially as John rubbed his fingertips over the area and felt the patch of skin grow oily. John leant back, exhaled and held up his hand. 

"Have you got the needle?" 

"Sure," Molly said. 

"Can you hold his tail still, he's bound to twitch." 

Sherlock gave a rumble and Molly, half-crouched, hesitated. Turning his head Sherlock gave another growl, gentler in tone and aimed to reassure. 

"It's okay," John said, as she knelt down and took hold of Sherlock's tail. 

Very carefully John probed with the needle. Molly bit down on her lip, eying Sherlock nervously. She was closer to him than John if he decided he didn't like it. John had no worries that Sherlock would react badly, to the point of turning and biting. He paused a moment to look up. 

"If it's too painful, tell me to stop." 

Sherlock grunted an affirmative, huffing out a heavy breath as he felt John slowly insert the needle. He growled with every breath he took as Molly clung onto him and John worked to extract what they needed. Once he had filled the small syringe John pulled out. Sherlock gave one heavy huff and with a flick pulled his tail from Molly's grasp. 

"Will that be enough?" John asked. 

"I would think so," Molly said. "Presumably it can be diluted with other substances, in that form," she pointed at the syringe, "that would be concentrated. When it's excreted into the air, or onto surfaces it will be diluted by the environment and still strong enough to pick up." 

Sherlock gave another rumble of agreement and then jogged off in the direction of the bedroom. Disappearing behind the door there was a minutes pause before he returned covered up in a shirt and trousers and back to his human self. He winced slightly as he walked. 

"Are you all right?"

"That is more painful that it seems, but yes. Now we just need to work out how to do this."

"I know a little bit about this, but I may need to do some reading," Molly said. 

"Tea?" Mrs Hudson asked. Sherlock took the mug she offered. 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson."

"Even if we find out how it was done. We still need to know the why," John said as he picked up another mug. 

Sherlock shrugged. "We might never find out why, I want to know how." 

"It certainly hints that Irene is involved with him," John said. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "And Mycroft brought the case to our attention."

"I don't think he wants you anywhere near Moriarty." 

Sherlock said nothing, he swiped the test tube of liquid which Molly had carefully decanted from the syringe, staring at it intently. 

"Considering what this can cause, it doesn't look like much." 

"Maybe it wasn't Jim," Molly said nervously. Sherlock stopped glaring at the syringe and glared at her instead. At least they had managed to locate the strange smell in the morgue, and Molly had lost her budding boyfriend, who merely wished to leave scent traces for Sherlock to find. 

"I mean, it was him," she babbled. "But maybe he was using her... I mean... you seem a little... obsessed." 

Sherlock frowned, staring at Molly in confusion. John watched them both. Seeing what Molly was saying. 

"But his pheromones wouldn't work to interest Sherlock. Even in heat," John reasoned. 

"No." 

"But they put you in heat, and then she came to the house, reeking of him." 

"My coat was, not her," Sherlock said. "And by misfortune, maybe, you just happened to be in the room. My dislike of alphas is well known, especially in heat. The only one that has ever gone near me is Mycroft." 

John watched Molly grimace, eyes widening at the implication. As she caught his eye John shook his head.

"So he might not have been expecting us to. For me to deal with your heat." 

"Or if you dealt with it that you had done so. But, Irene, she remains out of kilter with this." 

"She's a dominatrix," John said. "Infusing you with omega pheromones, which cause a cycle. Putting them on your coat, which causes you to smell of your cycle, or a cycle at least. If she was a wolf, she'd be a alpha female." 

"He wouldn't turn her!" Sherlock said spinning on his heel, his hands scrabbled for his violin and he plucked the string savagely. "He wouldn't." 

John said nothing. Molly shifted from foot to foot. 

"Maybe you don't need to." 

Sherlock stopped plucking at the strings as he tuned up. 

"Well, people, humans, sense it. You just have to watch... you... in the street... everyone turns their head." 

"No they don't," Sherlock snapped. Molly backed up, looking nervous. 

"Yes, they do," John said. "They want something from you, both of them. We just don't know what."

"I don't care! I want to know how this was done!"

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"You're uncomfortable with it," Sherlock said at the end of John's stumbling conversation. 

"I just asked about what you said. Actually... I didn't ask... I brought up the fact that you said you wanted me to have sex with you." 

"Yes. It is a logical conclusion to the situation." 

"No, it's not." 

"You stay with me through my cycle. You are susceptible to it but yet have control. It would ease my discomfort and yet you refuse." 

"It's not that Sherlock." 

"It is, I have watched it and can't blame you. You were forced into this situation and partly by me. But that does not change your thought patterns. You are uncomfortable with me and with what I am." 

And as was the way with Sherlock, he didn't wait for an answer. John couldn't give him one 

John Watson's ignorance was, as far as Sherlock was concerned, complete bliss.


	22. Dog Fights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not entirely how I thought this chapter would go but I think I just need to get past it and work on. Which is why it's up now and I can carry on with the story.

Life attached to the pack had it’s oddities but being sent on a ‘holiday’ was the strangest thing to date. He hadn’t even been back at work from his actual holiday for 24 hours before his superior had called him into his office. 

“You’re taking a leave of absence.” 

“Sir, I don’t need….”

The man concentrated on signing a piece of paper in front of him while he talked. 

“Not my decision. Orders from above.” 

Greg shut up. The explanation at that point was obvious. 

Mycroft. 

Greg had sighed. “Yes, Sir.” 

“You can leave immediately, Donovan can brief the others on any ongoing cases,” the man told him, head still bent as if the paperwork he was dealing with was the most fascinating thing in the world. Greg left the office more than used to that behaviour. 

None of his superiors ever looked him in the eye, almost as if they didn’t dare, since he had been bitten and his job saved by someone far more superior than them – in many senses of that word, Greg mused to himself as he thought about Mycroft. 

He hadn’t even made it to the car before Mycroft phoned him. He had paused to light a cigarette and he almost dropped everything as he juggled his lighter, the packet and the phone, before finally answering it. 

“What’s going on?” 

The snapped question was answered with a pregnant pause.

“My Alpha.” 

Mycroft gave an audible sigh which was usually the indication that Greg’s lack of pack manners would be overlooked, either because Mycroft knew Greg couldn’t maintain them, or because he just didn’t have time to worry about it. 

Now, stood in the countryside pub, trying to casually explain himself and reflecting on the expression on Sherlock’s face, Greg actually wondered if Mycroft simply didn’t care. If it had been another one of the pack Mycroft would have likely ripped a strip off them for the lapse in etiquette. The only time that had ever happened to Greg was over Moriarty, and the game he had played. In Mycroft's eyes he was human, and therefore could be treated by a different set of rules, most of the time. He had been around the pack for long enough that a few things had deeply ingrained within him. 

"So he sends the friendly pack 'pet' to spy on me!" Sherlock snapped. 

Greg winced at pretty much every part of that sentence. It hit the nail on the head, and Greg had been associated long enough with the pack to know an insult when he heard one. 'Pet' was not a compliment. No wolf took kindly to that reference, unfortunately Greg couldn't retaliate against Sherlock. He wouldn't want to. And Sherlock was only pissed off because he knew Mycroft had intervened and quite deliberately with his move put Greg at odds with Sherlock. John glowered at Sherlock. Sherlock continued to glower at Greg. Greg sighed. 

"And he said you weren't to use this case to pursue your own ends, whatever that means," Lestrade eventually added. He watched the pair in front of him both frown. John turned his head to glare at Sherlock. Lestrade watched them both. 

"He said you would understand what that meant."

Greg gave the clear hint that he did not. He looked from one to the other, wondering if he would get an explanation. John in the end decided to do so.

"That pheromone scent that Moriarty synthesized, we have tried to recreate it but we don't have the right equipment, or enough expertise," John said. Greg nodded. 

"And a huge research lab probably does."

John gave an embarrassed shrug. Sherlock scowled. 

"Do you have to tell everyone?" 

"It's hardly everyone," John reasoned. 

"He will tell Mycroft." 

"Mycroft clearly already knows, never mind if he tells him anything or not." 

"He's here," Greg announced irritably. John and Sherlock turned to look at him. "And don't call me a 'pet'. I'm sorry that I can't be part of your inner circle, but Mycroft will do more damage, and I don't want that. I shouldn't have to live like this." 

John clearly decided the best thing he could do was change the subject. 

"But you could be just the person we need," he told Greg, and launched into his suspicions about the restaurant owners. 

"I'm sure he's pleased to see you," John assured Greg a while later as they left the pub. 

Greg shrugged. 

"What's with the word pet?" John asked. 

Greg tensed again, shoulders clenching tightly, and he exhaled heavily. "Trust me, anyone in the pack calls you that, not that they are likely to, punch them quick and hard, and put them off." 

"Why?" 

"Referring to the fact that you are domesticated is not a compliment, it's almost to the point of a challenge." 

"You just didn't punch Sherlock." 

"Sherlock can walk around calling people pets, although he shouldn't. The last person that retaliated on him for saying that had Mycroft to deal with. It makes the pack very complicated," Greg sighed. "Sherlock is the prominent omega, even behind Mycroft's chosen omega; not that Anthea cares. This is one of the reasons, I think, that Sherlock keeps himself as clear of the pack as he can. It's not because he doesn't want to be around it, and it's not just self-protection, he's protecting the entire pack."

"Is this the reason that a lot of packs push out omega males?" 

"There are probably not that many to make a study of it but at a rough guess, it might be. Or they are kept as the lowest member." 

"Pet?" John asked in a low tone as Sherlock walked over the pub threshold. Greg shrugged. 

"Maybe. I'll go and talk to the local police. I can't imagine we can charge them with anything," Greg said, nodding in the direction of the pub. 

As they started to separate Sherlock suddenly darted back, taking Greg by the arm and John watched as he said something, which he couldn't make out, to the beta wolf. Greg's eyes widened but he nodded. Sherlock turned, locked eyes with John and then turned back to Greg, putting his back to John. He could only understand the conversation from the expression on Greg's face which seemed something of a cross between furious and incredulous. Then Sherlock spun on his heel and walked back towards John, brushing past him. 

"That was shitty," John said as Sherlock walked off. 

"Greg can handle himself, we need higher level clearance," Sherlock said, reaching for his phone. 

"I am serious Sherlock and don't ignore me!!" John grabbed Sherlock's arm and spun him round. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sudden manhandling. John recoiled as he inhaled and picked up Sherlock's scent. 

"Don't start that." 

"I am unable to stop it. You are my guardian alpha, I react to you , I have feelings for you and a desire for you. You are a strong alpha John, you are the only bitten alpha to exist. I find this just as hard as you do."

"Guardian alphas become mates, I presume." 

"Not always, but guardian alphas will irrationally protect their omegas. I am sorry. Should you wish to distance yourself from me then be my guest, beyond that, I think we should avail ourselves of my brother's services." 

Sherlock put his phone to his ear. "Brother dear...." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Henry, it's all right," Sherlock said, while he tried not to register the glowing red eyes of the 'hound'. It looked more like a dog than the last time he had seen it, because he knew a random, vicious canine was loose on the moors. When he has listened to the two restaurant owners he knew they had been lying about the dog, something in the way they spoke, the way they had glanced at each other, had told him. Sherlock didn't understand it, he didn't even understand why John and Lestrade had accepted what they had said, but he hadn't asked. He had merely given an instruction. 

"Sherlock?" 

"It's just a dog." 

John wondered why Sherlock was saying that, for a second or so. He could see it was a dog, but then as he glanced at Sherlock and Henry it occurred to him that they weren't see that. What they saw was worst, but John had heard the hound in the lab. Henry raised his gun, and John saw his hand shaking. 

"It's all right," Sherlock repeated steadily. 

John felt his body respond as he inhaled and caught Sherlock's calming scent, which could work on humans even if they didn't know it, as he did so a bitter tang seemed to catch in his nostrils. Reaching up he clamped a hand over his nose, pressing down as the urge to sneeze overwhelmed him. 

"John?!" Sherlock snapped, his eyes darting sideways but shuttling back to the advancing dog. Saliva started to drip through it's jaws. John raised the gun again, then before he could do any more, the dog's head snapped sideways, and out of the corner of his eye John saw something flicker in the undergrowth. 

Sherlock shoved John and Henry behind him as the wolf charged forward, snarling frenziedly. The silver fur rippled in the moonlight as Greg broke cover. In response to the sudden threat the dog shifted but not quick enough as Greg launched himself forward, snapping his jaws close to the dog's neck. It responded in kind as Greg slammed his entire body into the dog, which sent them both pitching sideways. John still had his gun levelled but, all he could see was fur and soil flying as the two canines tussled. 

John took another sharp breath and coughed again, putting his free hand over his nose, using his sleeve as an improvised gas mask. Sherlock watched him carefully, looking around at the scenery. 

"It's in the fog, the chemical is in the fog! That's why you're reacting to it." 

As Greg tumbled through a thick swirl he gave a confused whine, shaking his head. 

"Try and stay clear of it!" Sherlock shouted. Greg turned his head, one ear swivelled on his head and his muzzle wrinkled as he bared his teeth whirling round again to face the dog as it launched itself on him. It gave a howl as Greg leapt lightly, landing so he could sink his teeth into the dog's shoulder. He pulled as hard as he could, the dog jerked away so Greg ended up tearing a chunk of muscle from the animal's shoulder. Greg's ears flattened down as the bulky animal rounded on him. He dropped the hunk of flesh he had just yanked off and circled carefully, also darting forward, John realised, to make sure he was between the dog and them. 

John raised his gun again. 

"Should I? I can't... Should we?" 

"No, Greg can handle that part," Sherlock said easing sideways, herding John onto safer territory and leading Henry with him. Henry stared at the two circling animals with wide, fixed eyes. 

"Are you sure?!" John almost released a shot as the dog, enraged by the pain, dived forward. It was favouring it's damaged side, unable to move properly. Greg stayed clear of the attack, snarling as he circled again, which meant that the dog lay between him and Sherlock. John realised that was Greg's concern because he looked directly at Sherlock, ears flat and tail down. Sherlock lifted his hand, indicating that he intended to take John and Henry to the left, and he wanted Greg to go right to keep the dog busy, that also put Greg on better ground to attack. Greg did as he was told, but he didn't look happy about it. 

"Sherlock!" John's voice remained low, he didn't want to attract the dog's attention, but as the figure moved through the trees, eyes glittering in a way that made John tense, he couldn't work it out for a moment, but he had seen something like it before. With a snarl Greg launched himself at the dog as Sherlock grabbed the intruder. John sneezed heavily, still trying to aim his gun at something. Eventually Sherlock threw the intruder down on the ground, the dog turned at the movement, distracted from Greg for a fatal split second. He dived forward and grabbed the dog's throat. John felt the bile rise in his throat as he heard the sound of flesh and cartilage ripping. Snarling and shaking his head Greg dragged the dog's throat out, then as his breath came out in heavy snorts he slowly laid down on the ground. 

"Oh my god, is that..." 

"It's not a dog Henry, that is a werewolf, and he's with me." 

Greg lowered his head even further, whining heavily. "We need to feed you, and not here, you are not eating some random dog, wait here. Dr Frankland!"

Greg however was already up and running. 

"Shit!" Sherlock said, threw back his head and howled.


	23. Wolf Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few things are worked out!! Finally ;-)

The sound caused Greg to slow down. He still had the prey in sight, running ahead of him and his instinct flared to keep going. The thought of blood in his mouth made his entire body vibrate with need. And this man had, somehow, threatened Sherlock. Greg had smelt Sherlock's reaction to him, as he had grappled with him. It was Greg's job to protect Sherlock. So he needed to remove the threat. 

However, the call was just as hard to ignore. The flickering human thoughts in Greg knew that Sherlock had made the slight level of distress deliberate, just because Greg couldn't ignore it. He shouldn't be leaving his charge, but then again, John was with him, and John was Sherlock's guardian alpha. Greg was just a foot soldier and he was doing his job. The surge of anger ran through his body, and he snarled, tensing his body and stretching his legs, realising he was gaining on his prey. 

The call happened again, stronger this time, but the sound told Greg that Sherlock was following him. Heading in the same direction as the threat. Again, Greg struggled with his instincts over whether he should ignore the call. 

He knew he shouldn't. Despite the fact that he knew that neither Sherlock nor John would ever tell Mycroft, the threat of the Alpha still hung over his head like the sword of Damocles. When it came to Sherlock no one in the pack could do right, for doing wrong. Greg got away with more than most, he was human, and he was one of Sherlock's guardians. An unusual status for a beta, but he had been handling Sherlock before he had been bitten. 

Greg was so confused, torn between the desire to chase down his prey or follow the pack call, that he didn't see the wire until the last moment. He ran headlong into it, and the moment he did so, he knew he'd be tangled. With a loud whine he wriggled, trying to free himself but the barbs snagged against his skin and he felt it tighten on him. He gave another whine and then as he heard Sherlock call again he howled back, yelping in distress as he attempted to back up. He almost pitched over on to his side as part of the fence gave way under his weight. If he carried on he was going to seriously hurt himself. Looking up he saw the prey running still, getting away from him, looking back over his shoulder to check Greg's progress, and there was nothing Greg could do about it. He snarled and lurched forward as he watched his prey slow down. The wire scratched him, snagging his fur and tangling around his legs. 

With heavy huffing breaths he forced himself to stay still, trying to turn his head to look for the others behind him, wincing as his ear ripped and started to bleed. He couldn't even comfortably shake his head to dislodge the drops of blood as they ran into his ear. 

"Christ, Greg!" 

He gave a pitiful whine as John eased his way towards him, pushing the wire slightly to get it out of the way. Henry, still looking shell-shocked, helped him, staring at the warning sign just to Greg's left, and a second later the explosion rocketed up into the sky. The ground rumbled underneath them and all four of them watched as the fire died down. Sherlock watched with some level of satisfaction. 

"Stay still Greg," John ordered. The wolf gave another whine. Sherlock turned and crouched down, putting his hands around Greg's neck to keep him still. 

"You heard John, just wait." 

"Sherlock, can you help lift that leg." 

With a curt nod Sherlock wrapped his left arm tightly around Greg's neck, effectively putting him in a headlock, and he reached down to move one of Greg's paws out of the wire, then the other, while John and Henry struggled to pull the wire away from Greg's body. Greg whined, and despite the irritation to his nose John smelt the soothing scent of Sherlock's pheromones, and he watched as he rubbed his face against Greg's growling softly as he did so. Greg's tail lifted slightly, and it wagged gently. He licked Sherlock's face and jaw, huffing and growling as he did so. 

"I've got this bit," Henry said. John turned to concentrate on pulling the wire clear while Sherlock held Greg still. 

Sherlock growled back, running his fingers through Greg's fur. John took a deep breath, taking in the scent himself, and it seemed to even work on Henry, as he moved around John to help pull the wire down, so he could get closer to Greg. The younger man, who had seemed so stressed before, now relaxed, focusing on helping the wolf free himself of the tangles. 

Greg gave a rumble, lifting his head and licking around Sherlock's jaw and mouth, while Sherlock continued to run his fingers through Greg's fur, helping him lift his feet to pull him away from the wire. As they eased the last strands of wire away Greg bounced free, whining and rubbing against Sherlock, who slowly stood up. John and Henry stepped back from the wire and looked to the spot where the explosion had occurred. Greg fussed around Sherlock, rubbing his head against his leg and putting his head under Sherlock's hand. Sherlock responded quite congenially, petting Greg's head and growling back. 

"Well, we've lost our suspect," John said rubbing his nose. Greg sneezed again. Sherlock looked down at him and lifted the material of his coat. 

"Thank you," Sherlock said. Greg gave another rumble that sounded like an apology. 

"Are they all right?" Henry asked, looking from John to Greg. 

"Something in that gas appears to have upset them. It was clearly how the drug was being delivered to you, every time to came here. You had built what happened up in your mind. The effects of the 'HOUND' drug may continue for a while so quite frankly, I would advise you to avoid this place for a little while." 

Greg sneeze again, putting his muzzle down to rub his nose, then he lifted it again, sniffing the air, then snuffling at the ground. He gave a little growl and then looked up at Sherlock. 

"I'm becoming very aware of it," Sherlock said to him. "It certainly addled your mind for a moment." 

Greg's ears drooped and he whimpered, moving closer to Sherlock again, fussing round him, rubbing against him and almost tripping him up as Sherlock attempted to walk off. 

"I will not tell Mycroft of any mild indiscretion on your part. I was in no danger, there is no point in agitating my brother for no reason."

The whine Greg gave sounded very unconvinced. 

"You did as you were told, and acted to protect me. And you haven't eaten have you?" 

Greg rumbled again. 

"Very well; and I believe John, and most certainly Henry, could do with a drink. It is appropriate for these types of occasions?" 

He turned to look at John, who exhaled heavily. 

"Most definitely. Although, how do we explain the body... parts... in the minefield, the dead dog and the werewolf." 

"There's an easy method for that," Sherlock announced pulling out his phone and dialling as he strode away, Greg trotted at his heels. 

"Mycroft!" 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" Billy asked Greg nervously as he deposited a fried breakfast in front of John, who tucked in eagerly. Greg, lounging on the far side of the table shook his head. 

"No, I'm not hungry." 

Sherlock smirked, and also shook his head. "No thank you." 

Billy looked terrified and scurried away but not before he gave Greg another wide-eyed awe filled look. Greg tried to ignore it, Sherlock smirked. John looked from one to the other. 

"Are you sure we should have let them see you?" 

"What?" Greg asked. He frowned slightly. 

"Hardly a cause for concern," Sherlock said. "We have the information that they kept the dog alive, and were still feeding it. Besides who are they really going to tell?" 

"The locals, the newspapers." 

"Again John," Sherlock said, sitting down on the bench next to him. "Hardly of any consequence. Because of other factors no information will be printed, the government want to keep any hint that the Baskerville facility had any connection to the experiment in Dewers Hollow under wraps. And there have already been speculations that the 'hound' was a werewolf, so Greg is not unusual. Apart from the fact the moors have no pack scent to them." 

"And Mycroft can keep a lid on it?" John asked. 

"Naturally," Sherlock said. "And I told him that both of you were acting under my orders, as protection." 

Greg sipped his coffee looking slightly uneasy as he stared at Sherlock. 

"Will he believe that?" 

"Yes, he will. I told him so." 

John noted that Greg still looked unsure of that fact. He could understand Greg's nerves considering the aftermath of the game with Moriarty. 

"Anyway, Mycroft will ensure that all the HOUND research is commandeered, especially as it appeared to have such an effect on bitten wolves." 

"It didn't smell like anything," Greg said. "Whatever it was just sort of tickled." 

"And had the effect of turning a usually rational wolf rather feral."

"I also hadn't eaten," Greg said. 

"That's been dealt with. I think you had every steak in their secret stash," John announced, sounding rather amused. Greg had sat in the pub, after Sherlock had resolutely pounded on the door to gain entry during the early hours of the morning, and while they all recovered from the events of the night Greg ate every piece of meat offered to him, lying on the floor and staring relentlessly at the pub owners every time he finished what he had been given. No wonder they seemed so awed and terrified of him now. 

"You only do that to ensure the change is smooth, the hunting instinct is never usually that overwhelming. You've learnt too much control for that. I'm missing something..." Sherlock paused musing, looking irritated that he couldn't seem to work it out. He gulped at his coffee and looked around. 

"What could you smell?" he turned and glowered at Greg. 

"Nothing really," Greg said. 

"At the very end you sniffed and looked at me as if you had noticed something..." 

"Not really. There wasn't really much to it, which was a bit weird. It was like the ground didn't smell of anything either, it was sterile."

"What?" Sherlock snapped, he lifted his nose and inhaled, taking in the scents around, just to ensure everything was working. Spinning on his heel he stalked off. Greg watched him go, folding his arms on the table and resting his chin on them, looking slightly despondent. 

"You did exactly as Sherlock told you to do. Even Mycroft can't find fault with that." 

"He did when we faced Moriarty."

"This was not the same. It was impressive," John said. "Watching you fight that dog."

Sherlock strode past. "He is one of the pack's best fighters."

Greg gave a ghost of a smirk. "Don't let anyone else hear you say that." 

Sherlock spun to pace back again. "Blake Taylor is a moron!" 

Greg rolled his eyes, and then sneezed. Sherlock pounced on him. 

"What's the matter?" 

"Nothing," Greg said, trying to bat Sherlock off. "Just probably a bit of pollen up my nose."

Sherlock stopped grappling, reared back and glared down at Greg. In response Greg eyed him warily. 

"Anaphylactic shock! That's it, that's what I'm missing. Anaphylactic shock! Of course!" 

"Why 'of course'?" John said. 

"Is it a trail he is leaving? There is no way that Moriarty could have known about Baskerville. Did he know about the HOUND research?" 

"What has Moriarty got to do with anaphylactic shock?" 

"Oh, for goodness sake John, pay attention." 

"I was, you're just talking randomly." 

Sherlock growled. "You two both sneezed as the drug was dispersed into the atmosphere. Correct?" 

"Yeah, but that's not anaphylactic shock." 

Sherlock glowered at Greg. "I'm working towards that for those with low intelligence." 

"Right." Greg glared at the table top and then looked up. "But true, we both sneezed, like we sensed something, but it smelt sterile."

"Any other time you have smelt that... John?" 

"Not that I can think of." 

"Too new to perhaps be able to interpret. But I have two wolves, who changed into their new skins, quick and fast. I know that happened to you," Sherlock said to Greg. "John, from when you were bitten to your first change, how long?" 

"About 48 hours I think. Is that quick?" 

"Yes. Was there someone there with you, who understood?" 

"No, but a local had advised that there was nothing the rest of the team could do for me. We were miles from the base and waiting for rescue. They almost left me, and then I just... I led them back, they followed the trail and a team were coming the other way." 

"You were dehydrated, hungry, hurt and stressed, and the person that you are, you would do nothing else but want to save the rest of the people that you were with."

"They were debating shooting me, after I had been bitten." 

"But they didn't and you are loyal to a fault," Sherlock said. "You knew what you needed to do to save them. So you changed, quicker than any other. Greg changed but had an alpha present."

"Who forced me into it," Greg said. John gave him a sharp, concerned look. There was only one alpha that would have done that. 

"Strong, sure changes." Sherlock said. "And you were right, cross-contamination should not be a concern for you, but it is for others. Describe the one thing about your first change, the one thing that made you panic." 

"I couldn't breath," Greg said to John. 

"I was hot, I really can't remember much else except pain, and it burnt and took my breath away." 

"Anaphylactic shock, the airways constrict. However, in the case of Physical Lycanthropy, that is a good thing, it shows the body moving into change and it has to panic it." 

"We are getting to a point, aren't we Sherlock." 

"A regularly changing bitten wolf that gets wolf fever; you over react to a pheromone trace on my coat as Irene Adler returns it, you sneeze at an airborne drug but nothing beyond that, my carefully excreted scent suddenly puts sense into Henry Knight when he is suddenly looking at a real 'hound'. The scents, the chemicals, the reactions..." 

"Are you saying that Moriarty wanted to make me suffer wolf fever?" John said. 

"I don't see how he would have thought that possible, but he put you into rut, and then doused my coat and let Irene drop it off. He gave her a syringe filled with a sedative and his own pheromone." 

"Anaphylactic shock," Greg repeated. "You went into a heat." 

"Thank you, exactly!" 

"So, is he still running the research on this drug or leaving you a trail or what. You said this Frankland was friendly to you."

"But it was Henry that called us." 

"He was searching the internet for help. Help in solving a murder. Put the right words in, set up the right links and... hey presto, find your website, or my blog and click on the link, you have a great detective, who can't resist a mystery. The fact that Henry is very distressed when he arrives, that just adds to it, you can't resist that, Sherlock."

"My Omega nature," Sherlock snarled. 

"It's not a bad thing," John growled at him. "You want to care. You just can't do it to your pack."

Sherlock stopped pacing and glowered, eyeing flickering into wolf as he glared at them. 

"I can. I have MY pack. There is one thing we have to do, before we do anything else." 

"What's that?" 

"Teach you to fight." 

John shrugged. "I'm an army veteran. I know how to fight." 

Sherlock smirked. "Beat Greg, then I'll believe that."


	24. Open Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a bit of pack play, and a wolfie dinner.... (which does involve hunting innocent wildlife.)

Sherlock found a patch of quiet, open ground, and took the jeep off-road. He didn't go far, just far enough to tuck the vehicle behind some trees, so it couldn't be seen from the road. 

"Perfect to change in as well," Sherlock said striding into the little coppice. John and Greg hung back for a moment until Sherlock's sleek, dark form trotted out from the bushes. Greg and John looked at each other. 

"I seem to take a while," John said. 

That appeared to decide Greg that he could go second. He vanished into the trees and several minutes later the silvery grey wolf padded out, slowly stretching his legs and back. Greg had taken longer than Sherlock to change, which was normal, it came naturally to Sherlock. John strode into the trees to take his turn a little worried about his own performance. He hadn't been shifting form for as long as Greg, so he supposed he had some justification for taking longer. But it worried him that perhaps things like that gave the rest of the pack the idea that he wasn't up to the job of guardian alpha. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had got the job, or if he had even been given it. It had occurred more by assumption than anything else. 

He looked around the coppice, seeing the two neat piles of clothes, and he started to strip to add a third. 

What his accidental status was likely down to was the fact he was an alpha living around an omega. From what John could gather, there were traditions within the pack, around status titles. In the modern world they were less necessary, and merely a convenience to keep breeding lines pure. But as had been demonstrated there was also a violence to it. A violence that Sherlock seemed to draw, because he was different. It was a difference that didn’t matter to John, and quite likely didn’t matter to Greg, because they were human, bitten, but still human. They were part of both worlds, but really, in actual fact, belonged to neither. 

He let those thoughts roam around his head as he undressed, shivering at the cold, and he tried to get his mindset into changing forms, lying down on the floor and taking slow deep breaths. 

How long the process took that time, John wasn’t sure. Maybe because he could smell both Sherlock and Greg’s scents in the area, or just the stress of the last few days gave him something to work with, it seemed easier. Although just as painful, his limbs snapping violently as the joints shifted and altered, until he was a panting heap of fur. He moved slowly as he rose up, carefully stretching his limbs, the ache in them easing as he got used to the wolf form. 

Assured that he felt well enough to continue John eased his way out of the trees. Sherlock and Greg were a short distance away, sniffing at each other, tails wagging gently. John gave a low huff as he watched Greg’s nose quest down Sherlock’s side, sniffing him intently until he snuffled around Sherlock’s tail, easing his nose underneath. Sherlock gave a low growl, but he hardly rejected the gesture as Greg’s tail increased wagging as he snuffled, clearly picking up the scent of Sherlock's supra-caudal gland. John felt annoyed that Greg was doing it in the first place and secondly that Sherlock wasn’t rejecting him, as he usually did when a wolf made a move like that. Then again, Sherlock trusted Greg just as much as he did John. He had been there looking after Sherlock on the night John had met them. It also occurred to him what Sherlock meant by his pack. He certainly couldn’t claim Mycroft’s pack with such emphasis, but he could claim John and Greg. 

Despite that logical thought John couldn’t help his reaction as he dived forward, snapping at Greg. The moment he heard him Greg jumped, twisting out of the way to avoid John’s teeth. However, John gave a yelp, more shock than pain, as he felt the light nip to his own flank as Greg retaliated. The bite was not violent, more a warning that Greg was not about to take it, and also the fact that he was quicker that John. He had hardly seen the beta wolf move before he had caught him. As John snapped at him again Greg easily dodged, positioning himself ready for a fight. 

It didn't start, Sherlock gave a huff and swivelled round before trotting off. Greg glanced at him, then back at John, then inclined his head turning to jog after Sherlock. John did the same, understanding the hint, he felt his own need to run. Although John's coordination had improved, he was hopelessly trailing the other two wolves. Naturally Sherlock ran ahead, his lithe form born to him, so it was almost automatic as he ran. 

Greg seemed to be just as confident, keeping up with Sherlock, leaping obstacles and dodging round clusters of long grass. John tried to do the same, but he was still learning to balance all the parts he needed to. He could run, and move well enough, but compared to Greg, and most certainly Sherlock, he distinctly lacked the pace. 

Sherlock ran up an incline, pausing at the top, wind rippling his fur as he looked around. Greg ran up behind him, staying close as they both looked around the open moor. Putting his nose to the ground Greg sniffed, Sherlock did the same, snuffling about, picking up traces of animals, and a faint tinge of wolf. It had been a long time ago, but wolves had used this place. They waited for John to catch up, lurching as he ran up the hill to meet them. Both Sherlock and Greg went to sniff him, snuffling around and Greg, quite clearly for devilment, stuck his nose under John's tail. 

The alpha spun round, snapping at Greg, who again easily dodged, then put his weight against John, knocking him over, rolling him onto his back. John instinctively bared his teeth, lifting his paws to hold Greg away. Greg stayed over him for a moment, teeth slightly exposed, but clearly relaxed about his supremacy of the situation. John tried rolling, but Greg applied his own weight keeping John pinned, looming over him. 

John took advantage of that by snapping at Greg's nose, close enough to almost catch him. That caused the silver wolf to recoil, giving John enough opportunity to roll over, but as he jumped up Greg managed a nip to his backside. John whirled round again and Greg danced to the side, waiting again, glancing briefly at Sherlock, who watched intently.

That gave John the hint, he really was getting a training session, which he supposed he needed. The only wolves he had taken on were bitten, without pack connections and training. Greg was probably only one of a very few bitten wolves that had got that far. John had defended Sherlock but mostly in human form, and using weapons. Greg lowered his head, and put a paw across his muzzle in a hint that he did think that was a clever move. John nodded, taking the compliment and they circled each other. 

As they did so, John tilted his head, momentarily distracted as he caught sight of Greg's side. He remembered the conversation he had had with Sherlock about bite infections. On Greg's side, presumably where his bite had occurred, and infected, there was no fur, just a square of exposed skin, where the infection had been cut out, and his ability to grow fur permanently damaged. Greg glanced at his side and gave a huff, attempting to shrug at the same time. It had happened, and there was nothing he could have done about it. John felt curious and gave a tentative step forward. Greg went still, tail lifting and wagging slightly, and he ducked his head in a hint that John could step forwards. As he did so Greg presented his side to him. 

John gave a tentative sniff of the area, pressing his nose against it, feeling the silky smooth scar tissue before brushing against Greg's silvery fur. Greg lifted his head to rest it on John's back, giving a reassuring rumble. He wasn't bothered about it, the scar had been there ever since he had been bitten. Sherlock moved closer, ears dropping slightly, aware that he had caused the problem in the first place. All of Greg's problems really. Greg gave a huff and gently nudged John's side in a hint to get back to the matter in hand. He danced off, moving lightly on his paws and turned around, lowering his head and shoulders, body tensing, ready to pounce. 

It gave John enough warning to dodge out of the way, but not enough to avoid the follow up as Greg landed and spun on his feet to catch John on his flank again. John gave a rumble of irritation. Greg pounced again, and this time John ducked, moving under Greg, using his shoulder to flip him over. Greg gave a yip of surprise as he crashed onto his side, and he wasn't quick enough to get away from John as he latched his teeth into the scruff of Greg's neck and used his weight to pin him down. Greg scrabbled for a moment but John held on, growling violently, until Greg, unable to get up, went limp and huffed in concession. 

Slowly John released his hold, as Sherlock stuck his nose in and nudged John off. It made John feel slightly embarrassed as he backed up. Although he could control himself enough not to cause damage, he hadn't wanted to let go. Greg had backed off when the moment required it. John huffed and Sherlock tossed his head, rumbling his approval of the situation. Greg lithely got to his feet and looked around, he turned to look at John and his head ducked again before he moved closer. He pressed his nose to John's side and gave a low huff. John snarled back and tilted his head to brush against Greg's shoulder. Greg danced away, nipped at John's back legs, and the whole thing started up again. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

John thought it was somehow getting the hang of it. He seemed to be getting quicker, and managed a couple of clear bites on Greg. One of them made Greg yelp quite sharply and John felt the gush of blood into his mouth. He let go as quickly as he had bitten, jumping away a little guiltily. 

Greg paused darting about to swivel his head to assess his left hip. The hair around the wound started to darken with blood and Greg twisted in an attempt to clean it up, sitting down to duck his head. Sherlock, who had been watching, trotted up to sniff the wound, licking the blood as it flowed. John gave a slight rumble in way of apology and tried to stick his own nose in to make sure he hadn't done anything too terrible. It seemed like he had stepped over some sort of line. 

As he moved closer Greg gave a grunt and nudged him with his muzzle in a sort of 'don't worry about it' gesture. John nudged back and watched Sherlock lick at the wound. Greg pushed against John again, this time with more force, so he had to step sideways. John huffed and dropping his head, shoved back. Sherlock growled irritably as they went at it like that for a few moments, then Greg turned his head, abruptly standing up, and turning at the same time, so he bumped his rear into Sherlock's side. Sherlock pushed back, giving another growl. Greg ignored him, dropping down in the grass and easing himself forward, eyes locked on something in the grass. He stretched his neck out, crawling forward, tail up in the air, but it stayed still in anticipation. 

Sherlock moved behind him, ears pricked up, tongue lolling out of his mouth. John ducked his head, watching as he saw the minute ripple in the grass, and caught the sight of brown fur. He tensed as it ran to the right. Greg leapt up, following the rabbit. John reacted with the same instinct, dashing with him, gaining a little and heading to the right. 

As he did so, he realised he was probably not likely to catch the creature. But his movement caused the small mammal to veer away, darting left, which gave Greg chance to surge forward and as he pounced he caught the animal in his jaws. John winced at the sickening crunch, then Greg slowly turned, holding the now dead animal in his jaws. He almost dropped it as Sherlock leapt forward landing on another rabbit, also killing it instantly. John stared at them both in shock. Sherlock almost settled down to eat, until he saw another flash of movement. He dropped his first rabbit and dived on the other, again killing it swiftly. Turning he brought his prize back and put it down in front of John, looking at him expectantly. John sniffed the rabbit, but even though part of his instinct told him it was perfectly normal, something in his stomach recoiled from the idea of eating a raw, newly dead, animal. His ears dropped slightly and he sniffed the rabbit, giving a light whine of confusion. Greg gave a grunt and carried his own prize a short distance away, laying down he started to eat the rabbit. 

Sherlock watched John curiously for a moment, and then he seemed to accept what John was trying to say. Settling down Sherlock gathered up both rabbits and started to eat. John got the hint that eating was clearly not a requirement of this trip. He winced as Greg's jaws crunched against bones, and he ripped some flesh off said bone. Sherlock looked up at him and then went back to what he was doing. 

With a sigh, and deciding that there were some aspects of this life that he was never going to get used to, John lay down, curling up close to Sherlock, resting his nose against his omega's dark fur. Sherlock gave a contented huff and John stretched out, feeling the sun warming his body, thinking that at least that part of it was fine with him. 

They stayed like that for some time, and John only raised his head, and growled, when Greg inched forward to sniff at Sherlock's food. Greg took the hint and flopping back down again took advantage of the moment to also sprawl in the sun. Once he had finished with his rabbits, Sherlock did exactly the same. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The sun was low in the sky by the time they returned to their clothes. As they ran back with limbs aching for an entirely different reason from when they started, they looked at each other. Sherlock gave a 'I don't care' huff as he wriggled back into the coppice. Greg understood that hint and followed on his heels. Without hesitating John followed. 

They all still managed to very discreetly ignore each other during the flurry of snapping limbs as they changed back. John found that easier, although as his body settled it complained of various aches and pains, especially the bites he had received and which now littered his legs, and a couple on his backside. He attempted to examine them as best he could. Annoyingly, as he caught sight of Greg, as he dressed, John realised he had only managed two clear hits on the beta wolf. One of them the deep wound on his hip. He also noted the square of silvery scar tissue remained on his side. 

If Greg noticed him noticing he didn't acknowledge it, he just slipped into his clothes as quickly as possible, wincing as he stretched his limbs, feeling the ache in them. He paused, as he pulled up his trousers to look at the two bite marks John had given him. 

"Not bad." 

"You did better." 

"I've had more practice. All you need to do is speed up. You’re more balanced when you are not thinking about it.” 

“There seems to be so much to think about.” 

“Not really, get a hold of balancing with your tail and that's about the most of it. You've fought other wolves before."

"Those two were subordinates," Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat, shaking out the material. "Their training was somewhat limited."

"They could fight you," Greg said. 

"Two against one," Sherlock announced. "The first time I didn't even catch their scent until it was too late. The second, I should have known better."

"And I should have been there that time in the park." 

Sherlock turned to John. "You were." 

In the nick of time, John mused to himself. 

"Besides, as you said, all of John's instinct is correct, he just thinks too much. He also has quite a strong moral compass," Sherlock said. 

"Have I?" John asked. 

"You would think before hurting someone. Even today, with Greg, you held back, and hesitated. Greg did not, but he knew how much damage he could apply. Those bites would be considered nothing more than playful, or chastisement. Even the deeper bite."

"Great," John said. 

"They hint at what damage can be done. Aim high on the back leg and you'll just get flesh, go any lower and you can take out tendons, and cripple." 

John winced at Greg's words. 

"And the throat is naturally another area." 

"What about pinning others down?" John asked; something which Greg had done a few times. John had managed to gain supremacy, not as often, but he had been harder to pin as they had gone on. 

"If you relax, that means you're submitting. If you don't, you're not. On those occasion most pack members will back off, a sort of 'agree to disagree' until they can try again."

"Like you did," John clarified, remembering how Greg had carefully eased back, teeth still slightly bared, bouncing away as John had rolled to his feet. 

"Yeah. If they don't, the next move is obvious." 

"That happened with the one in the surgery, when he broke in. He sort of slunk off into the corner." 

"He stayed down I take it?" Greg asked. He also glanced at Sherlock. 

"That was the impression I got when I arrived. Once they do that, they don't want to fight anymore."

"I think I did," John said. 

"Why do you think he was hiding in the corner?" Sherlock told him. "A pack member won't behave the same. That wolf was already injured, and wouldn't want to take on an alpha. Within in the pack it's not the same. The fights have to happen, some are fatal, but on most occasions there is usually a concession before that point. Despite easily misinterpreted evidence to the contrary pack members don't like killing each other."

John snorted. "No, it does seem a bit contradictory."

"That's usually left for the serious issues," Greg said. "Leadership fights generally, and between packs the risk of a fight to the death is higher."

"Any cross pack breeding is carefully negotiated because of that. It's not much of an issue now, numbers are low enough that packs are countrywide. There is only one pack in England." 

"One in Ireland as well though. What about Wales and Scotland?" 

"There is a little bit of tribal behaviour but again, with numbers as they are clashing over it is not worth it. Ireland is a separate entity, as it's an island to itself, but an Irish wolf wouldn't cause the same disruptions appearing here as a wolf from somewhere in Europe say. That normally at least warrants a courtesy call."

"So when you travelled to Minsk, that involved a call?" 

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and eased his way out of the bushes to the car. 

"Of course, Mycroft made the call and as an omega travelling alone in a different pack's territory they loaned me a guardian alpha. Who was," Sherlock added as he saw the look on John's face, "well mated to his own omega, has two pups and merely needed to act as a guide. He was again, just another courtesy." 

"I could have gone with you," John said. 

"You were working and do you think any sort of travel like that is as courteous with an alpha in tow. It was simpler, especially as you are not that familiar with Pack Law."

John didn't look convinced but since Sherlock had returned home with no mishaps he probably had to simply accept it. 

"It would have been different if we were mated," Sherlock added. 

"That was why they gave you a mated alpha as a guardian."

"Of course. If they offered me an unmated alpha the intent is obvious."

"To bring you into their pack?" 

Sherlock nodded, and then shrugged, as he rummaged for the jeep's keys. 

"And what pack wants a male omega?" 

John and Greg glanced at each other, but neither answered. Quite frankly, there was no answer to that.


	25. Human Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This jumps to Sherlock's jump, from Greg's perspective.

Donovan hesitated, not wanting to move too close to her boss, he had displayed far more aggression in the last five minutes than she had seen the entire time she had known him. Part of it was directed at her and she couldn't decide if she wanted to argue the justifiable reasons. The evidence had pointed so strongly towards Sherlock. It had pleased her, having her prediction proved right, and then Sherlock had...

That part she didn't want to think about and she could hardly look Anderson in the eye. Anderson didn't know where to look faced with Lestrade's emotional break down. 

"What do we do with him?" another of the team asked her. 

"Leave him to me," 

All four of them turned their heads to the entrance of the alleyway following the direction of the smooth, commanding, voice. Donovan's eyes narrowed as she looked at the suited man watching the scene. Realising he now had their attention he stepped forward, moving silently, in a way that put Donovan on edge. As he turned his head she tensed at the glitter in his eyes and he inclined his head in the direction of the alley opening. 

"Off you go." 

The three behind her shifted nervously. Her head turned, almost automatically to view the escape route and she noted the dark car she knew so well idling at the kerb on the far side of the road. She had never seen the occupant until now. If she looked at him, just looked at him, he didn't seem like anything. He looked like an average man dressed like an office executive. But something else vibrated off him. Sherlock did it, her boss did a little, but what they gave off was nothing to the vibes of this wolf and all of them were feeling it. Sherlock's aura merely seemed to be made of arrogance; Lestrade's held a level of paternal authority, but from this man, all she could feel was menace, to the point her knees started to knock together. 

This man was a predator, and nothing was clearer than the fact he viewed them as little more than prey. He stared at them for a moment longer. 

"Go!" he growled. The three behind her started to shuffle away. Donovan held her ground as best she could. Fear rippled through her body, her skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. 

"Will he be all right?" she asked through gritted teeth, not allowing her voice to waver. She watched the wolf, a powerful man - she knew the affect he could have on her boss - regard her steadily, his eyes roving up and down her. 

"Perfectly," Mycroft said tolerating her insolence. A human could not understand so he held himself in check. From behind them Lestrade gave a long, low growl. "Now go!" Mycroft's voice lowered. Donovan couldn't wait any longer, her legs would give out completely if she stayed. She had no idea if she could trust this man, but she didn't think she could do anything for Lestrade. 

In the end she couldn't help it, she ran. As she got far enough away to think coherently she started to understand why so many bitten humans avoided the packs like the plague. And in counterbalance, Mycroft knew why those that tried to be accepted wanted to be so. It was a safety net. They could not live normal lives, however much they tried. Lestrade had lost his wife and his family because of what happened to him. But he had gained something else. 

Lestrade had gone still, aware of Mycroft's presence but not daring to move. He kept his head down, the alcohol in his stomach churning. If he vomited he would bring up nothing but bile which seemed well deserved for doubting Sherlock, even for a moment. 

Mycroft watched him. He could say something of the true facts of the incident but three people were the lynchpin of the plan. They had to be seen to mourn and make it genuine. The threat to them was real and they had to act accordingly. They could do so if they believed the convenient truth, that Sherlock had died, he had killed himself. And it was nothing to do with the pack, it was a human plan, filled with human nature, that had caused the chaos. No wonder Mycroft hadn't seen it coming. 

John, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade now held the plan together, they were the targets, they were watched, they had to be seen. Mrs Hudson had her neighbour, Mycroft had to do something but he couldn't help John, the alpha was on his own, any assistance would no doubt be rejected. If Mycroft sorted Gregory then perhaps it would filter to the alpha. He was a dangerous element and Mycroft could do nothing. Any wolf sent to console him would be seen as an affront, even thought it would be normal procedure for the pack to gather. They were gathering, as far as they knew a wolf had died, and an omega. Not one of them would not appear at the main gathering point. Mycroft could easily play the lie, his pack would carry him, he could be strong. He had to let John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson openly mourn. 

This part of it he could deal with. Lestrade sat still, his body vibrating with tension, unsure of what mood of Mycroft's would greet him. Moving closer Mycroft carefully crouched down, reaching out to run a hand over Lestrade's hair, down to the back of his neck. Mycroft took hold and leant in to smell Lestrade's hair. He could pick up the scent of wolf, the fact that he had not washed for the last few days, the alcohol and cigarettes which appeared to be the beta's only intake over that time, since the funeral. It boiled down to being the scent of despair. As much as Mycroft sympathized, he couldn't have one of his wolves behaving in such a manner. 

Lestrade growled, trying to ease away from Mycroft's grip. 

"Enough." 

"No, it's not. I didn't... I didn't do anything, I didn't help I just...."

Mycroft gave a low growl, steady and long, and leaning in he licked along Lestrade's jaw, the stubble grazing his tongue and the sweat making his senses tingle. 

Lestrade pulled back, knocking the back of his head against the wall. His eyes closed at the pain and he rapped his head again. He couldn't help but laugh. 

"You can do what you like to me. I don't care." 

Mycroft snarled. "I do. And enough. If you wish to die you will not do it like a stray dog in the street. But as that is not your aim I suggest you get on your feet." 

Lestrade lay limp for a moment before he felt Mycroft sniff at him and then his teeth lodged on his neck. Lestrade growled and he felt it as Mycroft responded. The alpha male snarled and then drew back. With a whimper Lestrade followed. 

"Get up," Mycroft ordered. He stood up, pulling the weaker wolf with him, holding him steady as he wavered on his feet. 

"I didn't want... I couldn't stop it...." 

"Enough Gregory." Mycroft cut off his babbling and instead started to steer him out of the alley. "No part of what you did caused anything. Now you need to come with me." 

"Yes, alpha." 

At least the wolf side of him intended to co-operate. He walked Lestrade across the road. Blake got out of the driver's side and opened the back door, allowing Mycroft to bundle Lestrade in. As he clambered in he slipped, sliding face down onto the floor and didn't bother to move. Mycroft let him sprawl as he followed and sat down, avoiding putting his feet on the prone wolf. Blake shut the door and got in the front, he didn't need to be told where to go, he knew the destination would be the Diogenes. 

Mycroft sat back as the car started to drift through the streets. 

"I would prefer that you did not vomit on the carpet. If you feel that bad you can pause on the pavement." 

"I'm fine," Lestrade choked. "You really do feel nothing." 

His stomach recoiled as Mycroft reached down, latching a hand on Lestrade's collar to pull him up. 

"Do not think to assume anything about me. I am your alpha and my pack is vital to me."

Lestrade slumped back down as Mycroft released him. Mycroft sat back and didn't bother to pick him up off the floor. 

"I'm sorry, my alpha." 

"For what? Unless you have just been sick in the car, in which case you will be sorry." 

"I failed Sherlock." 

Lestrade felt a soft hand in his hair. 

"You have not." 

"I didn't believe him." 

"Yes you did. And although you had to follow procedure, you did not believe it." 

"I did." 

"No, you did not."

He felt Mycroft's hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

"This is hardly productive," the alpha informed him. 

"It was my fault. I didn't..." 

Mycroft sighed. Lestrade would never see just how complicated the situation actually was. The situation was twisted enough without Greg adding complications. 

"Enough Gregory. None of this can be attributed to you." 

Lestrade sighed and remained sprawled on the floor of the car. It felt too difficult to get up, and he didn't want to. Mycroft's hand rubbed the back of his neck. Lestrade started to feel prickles of sweat on his forehead and his stomach rolled over. He took a short breath, assessing how strong the urge to vomit really was. If he asked Mycroft to pull over no doubt the alpha would order Blake to do exactly that, and Mycroft would not worry about the location, or what occurred beyond the car, as long as Greg did nothing within it. 

Taking a deep breath he forced himself to settle down and hold on. At least until the car pulled up on the side road, just by the alleyway that led to the back of the club. As Lestrade pulled himself out of the car and stood up, his head spun painfully. There was nothing else for it. He staggered over to the wall, ducking his head behind the bins and he retched up a stream of bile. He coughed several times, on two occasions thinking that the worst had passed before it rolled back over him again. 

It took him two attempts to get upright, once he felt well enough to do so, and he wondered how long he had taken. The car had gone, but Mycroft still stood in the entrance to the alleyway, but behind him, four beta wolves lurked, all of them looking ready to take hold of him. As they stepped forward Greg lashed out. 

He was quite certain that he broke a nose, and perhaps a few ribs before the hands on him tightened. Then one significant one clamped down on the back of his neck. All the others released and Mycroft shoved him down onto his knees. Greg gasped. 

"Behave yourself." 

Greg closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. The fingers on his neck gently massaged him, which did nothing to relax him but he submitted to the touch. 

"Take him upstairs, and leave him alone." 

The hand didn't release him as two people closed in on him, both taking a firm hold of an arm and hoisting him to his feet. Only then did Mycroft let go and Greg allowed himself to be hauled into the building. He didn't really pay much attention as he was dragged upstairs, into the private area of the club, and pushed onto a bed. They roughly divested him of his coat and shoes, before backing off an leaving him alone. Greg took several deep breaths and then lifted his head. 

Although the room gave nothing in particular away visually it was too impregnated with the smell to be anything other than Mycroft's. Greg lay within it, his head swimming, slightly concerned over the fact he had been put into Mycroft's private apartment. He lay on the bed, too weak to really do anything about it, tensing as he heard an irritated tut behind him. 

It made Greg want to get up and do something. Mycroft's scent came close to overwhelming him, and he had to close his eyes and try and will it away. Annoyingly it didn't go, but the waves of panic died down. There was comfort in having his alpha close, although he also tried to curl himself up, to protect himself. He still had the scars on his chest from Mycroft's claws. He knew he had failed again, Mycroft could kill him for that. Not that such a fate seemed likely. 

A hand touched his hair and then moved down to the nape of his neck and he felt a tingle that made Greg gasp and jerk away. 

"Gregory," Mycroft's tone was low, steady, but he said nothing further. Mycroft didn't move and there were no sounds for a moment until the sound of a zip unfastening. Greg turned his head to find Mycroft topless, and removing his trousers. 

"The pack will be here soon. They will come to you." 

Greg blinked, and then he got the hint. He couldn't change clothed. You could, but you ran the risk of material in unfortunate places; it was inconvenient and in worse cases caused injury. 

"I thought you would go elsewhere," Greg said. Mycroft looked pained. 

"Only the London wolves will come. I cannot call the pack, some have chosen to come, but I made a mistake, and Moriarty took advantage of it." 

Greg blinked, lifting himself up slightly and rather than trying to fight his drunkenness let it sit there and he could cope with it while he listened. 

"Moriarty took the fight to the media, to the human world; I didn't understand it until the last moment. He was a wolf, I thought he would keep it that way, he brought Sherlock into public view, too far; and Sherlock died to protect the pack." 

Greg blinked. It wasn't that surely. 

"No mention of Sherlock's status was printed, but it could have been. Moriarty knows that, he played that key and what would have happened. He had no knowledge that John was bitten, but in the end that didn't save him."

Greg clenched his teeth. "The police didn't help. I'm probably out of a job." 

"No, you are not. You did nothing wrong, people know what you are, they have no idea of who controls you. They know nothing about Sherlock." 

"You're well protected," Greg snarled. 

A second later he came face to teeth with Mycroft. Greg lay back on the bed, eyes wide, then they closed and he lifted his chin to expose his throat and he wondered what Mycroft would do. He took hold of him, Greg felt the sharp points of Mycroft's teeth press into his skin but he didn't hurt him, instead the growl his gave was low, reassuring and hinted at what was going on. 

Greg decided it was better to not argue. After Mycroft released him and ducked down to finish changing Greg pulled himself out of his clothes, he wasn't surprised when Mycroft moved closer invading him with scent to encourage him to change, it had happened the first time, years ago, and Greg always, psychologically, responded, turning to wolf form. They lay on the bed and waited.

Anthea came first, her sleek dark form jumping onto the bed and laying down with them, then slowly, all of the wolves came. 

Greg knew what it meant. They were mourning, they had lost an omega. Sherlock was a prominent omega but there was also Anthea. Greg was the one mourning, so the wolves slowly packed around him. They lay there licking him, snuffling him and pressing against him. Mycroft had left the door open and every wolf in London entered the room. 

Greg lay still, surrounded by the pack, his heart settling as his wolf took over, but in the end he knew, his was not the hard road. 

That was John's path.


	26. The Lonely Road

John sat quietly at the back of the pub, hidden away in a booth, not wanting any company. Eventually some would turn up. Lestrade would be sent to retrieve him. Either the officer would turn up off his own bat, or Mycroft would send him. Between them the pair were keeping a close eye on him after Sherlock had.... The incident was now over nine months ago, but still, John had trouble facing it. He functioned; he worked, he went home and ate dinner and he slept and repeated the same the next day. But it wasn't living, there was nothing of any depth to it, not like when he had been chasing Sherlock around, doing what they did. There were only these moments now, when he just felt like drowning himself in his misery, and a good amount of drink. 

He growled and swilled down the liquid, the strong alcohol burning his throat. Hopefully by the time Lestrade appeared he would be well on the way to being drunk. He staggered over to the bar, waving his hand at the barmaid who filled up another glass for him, although she looked concerned as he drank it swiftly, holding the glass out for another. 

"Are you sure you should have another?" 

"Very, I'll be fine. My friend will be along to drag me out shortly." 

She still looked a little sceptical but she filled his glass again.

"That's the last one," she said to him. John nodded and he paid for the drinks and staggered back to the booth to nurse it. Halfway along he paused, the light scent just catching his senses. Omega; bitten, a scent he didn't recognise. His eyes scanned the room, assessing as he walked and he located the blonde woman sat at one of the tables with her friend opposite. There was some paperwork on the table between them, which John immediately recognised. Other people would not, it was all discreetly labelled, but it was the rubbish information that newly bitten wolves were given, during therapy sessions. He veered, easing his way to a table by the wall so he could watch. 

She was so new that she clearly didn't know that the area around Baker Street was given a very wide berth. No one had warned her about that, although even contaminated wolves were given those facts. John had staked the territory, or at least he had defended Sherlock's territory. A few members of the pack had eased their way in and been sent packing as soon as John found them. Mycroft hadn't given an order to leave John alone, he had done the work all himself. 

The only thing Mycroft had done was not do anything. As long as John didn't do anything too extreme Mycroft was prepared to let it run the course, and in his own way he didn't want Sherlock's territory encroached on. John just wanted to be left alone, and his aggression rose at the idea of another wolf near Baker Street but it was a new unknowledgeable omega, which made the threat relatively harmless. Or it did, until the other scent drifted in. 

He had missed the beta wolf, one he didn't recognise. But that wasn't a surprise, he didn't involve himself with the pack and Mycroft moved them around occasionally. This one John immediately disliked. He watched the man assess the bar, clearly tracking the omega scent and he watched the posturing. John raised his head and changed his assessment. The omega women was not just newly bitten, she was new to the area, her scent was a subtle trace. She was sourcing out places for information, but she wouldn't suffer a change immediately, it would take time to fully integrate into her system. 

Low level bite, John's mind told him, Sherlock's voice rippling through his head. 

No threat, but threatened, Sherlock added; John's mind in agreement with that assessment. And this was his area. She had done no harm, just sitting there talking to her friend, assessing her options, none of them would be good, really, unless she could learn to fight, or submit to a relationship which would not be of her choice. 

As the beta interrupted her John watched as her shoulders tensed, she moved back slightly, but not in a submissive way, she just intended to give herself room. However, she could not account for the swiftness of a better trained wolf, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, clamping his hand on the back of her neck so he could pull her in to scent her. John watched the woman bring up her leg and then try to pull back. Nothing submissive about her, despite the omega traces on her scent. He smiled for a moment, then it faded. 

His body reacted instinctively. It was a breach of etiquette to be on his patch, never mind behaving in such a fashion, and his mind came down on the side of the omega, who was a very pretty girl. Unlike the unwashed, alcohol-fused, beta. As drinking levels went he didn't have any room to talk but he had better standing. 

"Get off me!" 

"You're an omega, come on." 

Mary felt unimpressed, rearing back away from the smell her new senses informed her of. A stronger wolf, and she cringed at the information in her brain that told her, that somehow this beast was superior to her. She huffed and tensed, not about to allow anyone to do that to her. She could easily stop it, but it was probably best not to draw attention to herself. 

Unavoidable, however, as every pair of eyes in the pub were drawn to the scene, with several people easing away from the table where she had sat. Janine had stood up and backed away, unsure what to do. She jumped as John brushed past her, the beta wolf hadn't picked up his scent, but he certainly heard his growl. He watched the beta bristle at the challenge. John stood his ground and glared at him. 

"Let her go!" John's voice was low, drifting into a growl. The beta dropped the woman, and she thumped back into the chair. Mary stared at John in shock, her nostrils flaring as the new scent invaded the air around her table. Her eyes widened a little as her senses reacted to the more powerful scent. John kept her on the edge of his vision, just in case the beta had a friend who could move in to grab her. The beta looked John up and down, regarding him arrogantly. 

"What are you, her mate?" 

"No," John said with exaggerated patience. "But you don't play like that on my territory." 

The wolf tilted his head and frowned, looking somewhat confused by the comment. It was not a usual wolf reaction, it was John's alone. He might run wolves off from around Baker Street, but he would be polite about it. Whether or not he got directly involved, Mycroft kept an eye on him, and he knew he could get away with it if he sent Anthea. The first time John had seen her, the second full moon after Sherlock's death he had certainly informed her he did not want her there, but he stopped short of attacking her. Whether it was 'human' or not to behave in such a way, she was female and John's moral code stopped him from physically assaulting her in either form. If he tried it while changed, she would probably bite him back, and no doubt she knew some form of self-defence in human form. But they played the game at a respectful distance, and word had filtered through that no wolf was to violate the territory, and certainly not to try and take it. 

Greg had told John about that order, not that he cared. He felt like fighting the pack for what they had done to Sherlock, and Mycroft hadn't given him the satisfaction. 

"Oh, you're him!" the beta said, looking amused. John's aggression level rocketed, and the alcohol probably didn't help as he pounced. 

It was the only word that could describe the next few seconds as far as Mary was concerned. She watched the innocuous looking man, whose scent contradicted what her eyes were telling her, jump forward. The action looked agile and well-controlled, and he swiped the beta's face. In response the lower wolf attempted a growl, but John had backed him away from the omega. 

"I'm going to call the police!" the barmaid announced. 

"Don't worry about it, love, I am the police." 

Lestrade flashed his warrant card in her direction, letting her assess it properly while he kept his eyes on the situation in front of him. Most of the pub's customers, had pulled away. Only John, and the beta, plus Mary and Janine had stayed within the vicinity. The beta turned and gave Greg a half hearted snarl, but he clearly knew when he was beaten. Greg had his handcuffs ready. 

"I'm doing you a favour," Greg informed him and with a minimum of fuss restrained the beta male. He didn't dare resist, Mycroft would not be pleased with him. John wavered on his feet as he watched, torn between a desire to attack the beta, rip a strip of Greg, or just walk out, wanting to be alone. 

"John, are you all right?" Greg asked seeing the rage in his eyes. 

"Fine," John said shortly, subduing his violent urges, however as he passed the table, with the leaflets now scattered across the surface John swiped one that he recognised and he ripped it in half. "That is the last thing you need," he informed the blonde woman as he walked out, still tearing at the paper, letting it scatter onto the floor as he destroyed the form to register on the database of bitten wolves. 

"Are you all right?" Greg asked the two women, looking from the blonde to the brunette.

"Fine," the blonde said, somewhat absently as she followed John from the pub. Greg almost reached out to stop her, but she evaded him, heading towards the door, and he still had his hands full of the beta male. Besides, Greg knew John well enough to know he wouldn't lay a hand on the blonde woman. Greg could also pick up the trace of wolf on her, but John remained a gentlemen. 

"Come on Sunshine," Greg muttered to the beta. "What the hell did you think you were playing at." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Dr Watson?" 

John groaned, he was not in the mood to gather with the rest of his work colleagues. Certainly not after what he had drunk the previous day. He had made his contempt of company quite clear to Greg the previous night when he had come to check on John, after the dropping the beta at the Diogenes Club for Mycroft to deal with.

Mycroft solution to the problem was easy enough, he merely stared at the beta for a few long seconds, they were certainly long for the beta male, before saying. 

"Do that again and John Watson will no doubt break your neck, and I'll not discipline him for it."

Mycroft had made it quite clear months ago. Interfere with John's territory at your own risk. Technically Sherlock's territory, but that was, Mycroft decided, a minor quibble in the face of the situation. 

After spending the night brooding over the incident, almost debating the idea of going over to Baker Street, a place which betrayed itself by the fading scent. It hadn't smelt right since Sherlock's death, and John couldn't stand to be there, so in the end the impulse died. He vaguely remembered, in one of Sherlock's lectures, him saying that the omega of the pack was mourned more than any other death. 

Perhaps that didn't apply to Mycroft's pack as a whole, but certainly the little sub-pack had struggled to maintain it's equilibrium. Greg fared better because he was closer to the pack. John was not, he was linked by Sherlock, and that link had snapped. 

So involved in his own thoughts on the Pack politics, and Sherlock; mainly Sherlock, he didn't pick up any of the warning signs as the practice manager turned to him. 

"I just thought you might like to meet our new nurse, starting today. This is Mary." 

Then the scent registered in his mind, part of it had been picking up hints, and was probably partly responsible for the train of thought. He looked directly at the blonde woman who he had seen yesterday. Although to be fair, she looked as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Again John took in her scent. Her first change hadn't hit. Wherever the infection had occurred, it had been low level. It was another unusual trait. 

Werewolves only usually showed their teeth, to kill, Mycroft had been correct about that, which usually meant the bites were violent, and the infection ran deep in the weakened body. John's change had occurred within 48 hours of the attack. Quite swift by most standards, but he had also been in a rather stressful environment at the time. It gave much speculation to his alpha status but John didn't really care. He might have been unique, but he didn't think he was particularly special. 

Mary composed herself quickly, holding out her hand in greeting, and smiling brightly. John's human's senses stirred, she was attractive, and quite physically assured. 

"Nice to meet you," John said. Which was all he thought to say. Normally he would have tried some conversation, more than likely falling short of it being witty, or insightful, but he always made an effort. This time he stayed oddly reserved. But that had been how he felt ever since... the image of Sherlock falling, and the sight of him on the pavement flickered into his brain and he spent the next few seconds suppressing a howl. The practice manager, oblivious to his behaviour, smoothed that over by starting off on a little speech to welcome Mary, point out a few things and explain the etiquette of topping up the biscuit tin when it became low on supplies. 

Most of it penetrated into John's brain as a method of distraction. Mary listened politely but her eyes occasionally strayed to John. John tried not to notice, the last thing he needed was involvement with any more wolves. 

However, his life was never destined to be as simple as that.


	27. Fever

It seemed simple. Mary took the hint that he didn't want to interact on any level other than at work. She remained polite, chatting when they met over the biscuit tin, but always about safe, neutral subjects, and she kept her distance. The only problem was that intrigued the alpha in John, and her pretty face intrigued the male in him. 

Despite that, he managed to get on with life fairly well, until of course events conspired to snare him. Although, in the end, he didn't think it was all that bad of a result. 

The fact that the full moon was due might have had a baring on what happened, but it was unlikely. John didn't think about that until much later. However, he frowned as he walked into the staff kitchen to find a shattered mug on the floor, tea dribbling everywhere and Rachael the receptionist fussing over Mary as she sat in a chair, and Neil, one of the locum doctors taking her temperature. 

"Everything all right?" John asked, automatically reaching down to pick up several pieces of broken enamel, tucking the smaller ones into the largest piece containing most of the handle, a good chunk of side and the base. He gathered them and put them on the side before looking around for something to mop the mess with. 

"I just felt a little faint," Mary said. "I've got a bit of a cold, that's all." 

John unravelled a large wodge of paper towel and mopped. 

"Most people don't feel faint during a cold," John said. Then he lifted his head and stared at her. The two people flitting around her didn't notice the intense gaze. Mary leant back a little as she met his gaze and she jumped slightly as John suddenly stood up abandoning the paper towel to make it's own way around the tea spillage and he stepped towards them. 

On a pretence of putting his hand on her forehead, he leant in and sniffed. Mary's own nostrils flared in response to his proximity, which was enough of an indicator as anything else. Neil looked affronted and held up the thermometer. 

"I've checked, she's got a slight temperature. Some antibiotics should help." 

"I'll check, thank you," John said abruptly. He eased Rachael out of the way and took Mary's arm, guiding her onto her feet. Neil's frown deepened. 

"I'll take her into my surgery," John said. 

"I'm sure I can handle it," Neil said. 

"I'm sure you can, but I will." 

He made that the end of it, because if John's suspicion was right then Neil was in no way able to handle the situation. As they walked John asked her. 

"How long have you felt like this?" 

"I noticed it a couple of days ago." 

"What caused you to feel faint?" John asked. 

"I'm not sure. I was just thinking that the milk smelt off and then I wobbled," Mary said as John escorted her into the room and sat her down on the nearest chair. He backed off slightly and then looked around for his stethoscope and thermometer. 

"I'll be fine." 

John took her temperature, and then listened to her heart, which seemed to be beating a little fast. In the end he decided it was ridiculous to bother with any further examination like that. He needed to get to the point, especially as his eyes strayed down to her leg, which she was scratching through the denim of her jeans. 

"Where were you infected?" John asked, but he had the answer already. 

"What?" 

"Your lycanthropy infection, is it on your thigh?" 

She stopped scratching, looking worried. John took that as a yes. 

"Has it looked different?" 

"It felt a little rougher, but it sometimes does."

John stood up, backing away from her. "I need to see it." His tone of voice stated 'now' to her. 

"What is it?" she asked, but at the same time she had started to unbutton her jeans. John politely turned his back, letting her work with some privacy. Her gasp made him turn back and what he saw didn't surprise him. He looked at the patch of honey blonde hair on her leg, so thick it was fur. They were entirely unnecessary but he put on some gloves before pressing around the edge of the wound. Mary flinched. 

"How did you get the infection?" 

"Long story," she said, tightly. "Ex-boyfriend." 

"Did he warn you he had physical lycanthropy?" 

"Not really," Mary said. 

"At least the wound is clean," John said. 

"Is it?" Mary asked sounding doubtful. 

"What I mean is no fur is growing under your skin, it has come through cleanly. Have you felt your senses heighten recently? Besides picking up on the off milk in your tea." 

"A little, I think. I mean, that just happens when your infected, doesn't it? John, what is it?" 

"We need to get you out of here, get dressed. I have to take you..." John tailed off. Where could he take her. 

"John?" she asked again, almost snapped, her voice taking on a harsher tone. Looking down at her John knew he couldn't beat around the bush. What he had learnt of her during their time working together, she'd be better of knowing succinctly.

"It's not a cold Mary. This is the beginning of wolf fever, we need to get you out of here." 

"Why? Shouldn't I...?" 

"Unless you want to explain to them you are contaminated," John went for the pack word for infected humans. "They will treat your symptoms as they turn up, trying to prevent them. If you are in wolf fever, doing that causes the brain to literally explode because it can't do what it needs to do. You are about to go through your first change." 

"How long will it take? What do I do?"

"Are your family aware of your condition?" 

Harry only knew of his because of the way he had been infected. Some people kept it hidden. Mary shook her head, giving a shrug. 

"I'm an orphan, no family, so not an issue," she said, yanking her jeans up as she did so. She moved without any hint of self-consciousness despite the fact she had her jeans around her thighs and John was regularly getting flashes of her light blue knickers. 

"Right, you can't be here, if anything else happens. I'll tell them I'm taking you home."

"Okay," she said. "You know about this, you're an alpha, you're with the pack."

"Yeah, long story too," John sighed. Mary looked confused. She wouldn't know any different. He was the only bitten alpha known. As far as the public were concerned, bitten alpha males didn't exist. "I'll get your coat."

John disappeared while Mary slowly got to her feet, straightening her clothes while she waited for John. She took several deep breaths to try and calm herself down. It took the edge of the feelings that were threatening to take over her body, she couldn't afford to give anything away and she couldn't even begin to anticipate what might happen now. 

Still, she had one good method of distraction, she decided as John came back with her coat, getting it on her and rushing her out of the surgery, refusing to let anyone else help. 

The priority had been to take Mary away from the surgery, from medical professionals who would, if her reactions became increasingly extreme, try to prevent them. She couldn't go to hospital. John's tiny bedsit could not accommodate them. In the end, after he had driven for two minutes, he pulled into a parking space on a nearby street and started to fumble for his phone. 

Mary looked around in confusion, blinking slowly, wincing at the sunlight as it hit her sensitive eyes. 

"Where are we?" 

"Just... somewhere..." he looked around from the driver's seat of Mary's car. He had not driven a vehicle for a while. Around London it just didn't seem necessary, and could be overly time consuming. "To be honest, I hadn't thought beyond that, other than the fact I couldn't leave you with other medical professionals, however well meaning they may be."

"Okay," Mary said.

"I don't suppose you have a nice, large, garden do you?" John asked. 

"I presume that my window box would not be up to scratch," she said with a smile. John returned it half-heartedly as he pressed the number in his contacts list. 

"Greg, I need help, I have someone with wolf fever...." he paused. "Well.. they didn't exactly walk into the surgery, Mary hasn't changed before and..." 

"Yes, the blonde..." John snarled. "The pretty nurse... thank you Greg! Pay attention. What do I do? I know Sherlock said that unless this process is left to do it's thing they could die, but I've heard stories that even that doesn't help." 

John mentally cursed the fact that he had, on receipt of the pack's medical records, had sent them back to Mycroft without even looking at them, with a clear 'I'm not interested' hint. Mycroft had made no further direct contact. Only Anthea's occasional presence, and more regularly, traces of her scent, informed John of their ongoing observations of him. Other than that, they generally left well alone. Now he could have done with the information they had offered to him. Even if it had come with too big of a price. 

"I mean, the pack do that, don't they?" 

They had for Greg, John knew that, but he was a significantly special case. 

"Er, right," Greg said after a moment. "I need to make a phone call, I'll text you a safe location." 

"Tell Mycroft I don't want him sticking his nose in. He owes me this, and he'd better not argue!" 

"Right, okay," Greg said, sounding slightly nervous. "I'll get back to you when I can. Where are you?" 

"A couple of streets from the surgery...Mary!" 

On the other end of the phone Greg winced and hung up, fiddling through his contacts list. In the car, John caught Mary's wrist as she slid her hand over his chest. Leaning in she brushed her nose against his jaw. 

"You smell nice." 

John's phone had dropped into the footwell, and he tried not to accidentally crush it as he pushed her arm away and forced her to sit back in the passenger seat. 

"I'm sure I do." 

He spoke tentatively but his own alpha mind informed him that Mary's increasing scent was more than interesting. It had lingered at the back of his mind for months, probably like his had for her. He sighed heavily, as he tried to restrain her. 

"John?" she asked as she blinked. John lowered the windows of the doors to let some fresh air in. 

"Sorry, my scent isn't helping you. In fact, I think we can blame me for this."

"What?" 

"Your fever." 

Mary shifted in the seat, turning sideways, as far as the seatbelt would allow her. "In what way?" 

"You've been infected, and have been picking up my scent for months. From what I have smelt your are presenting as an omega." 

"And being around an alpha has done that?" 

"No, when I saw you in the pub that first time, you smelt of omega then. It's common for infected women, like beta tends to be what infected men present as. It's not a fixed scenario but the balance of probability shifts that way. I think it's possibly hormonal."

"But you get male omegas as well," Mary said. 

"Yes, bitten, if the infection is of a low level, but I think it relates to testosterone and adrenaline levels," he said, and which he presumably had in bucket loads to make himself into an alpha. "And you do get the odd born male omega," John said sadly, wistfully, as he thought of Sherlock. 

"I'm sorry," Mary said gently. John blinked and looked at her. 

"You lost someone, it's written all over your face. Your omega?" 

John clenched his jaw, and gripped the steering wheel until the plastic creaked. Mary watched, waiting; and they were both distracted as John's phone beeped with his text alert. Mary sat back, breathing heavily. John opened the text and looked at the address Greg had sent him and he scrolled down to read the further instructions.

'Follow driveway to end, small chalet at back, has private garden and den behind.'

"Right," John said. "Now I just need to find the place." 

"I've got a sat nav," Mary said, her voice lowering to a growl. She cleared her throat before adding. "In the glove...."

Leaning forward she scrabbled to open it. The drawer dropped open, striking her hand and she winced, giving a loud yelp. 

"I'll do it," John said. 

He remembered how it felt. The heat of the day hadn't helped him, it had felt as if his skin had been crawling with insects, and all of them biting into him. 

Mary writhed in the seat as John dragged out the sat nav and struggled to punch in the postcode. Once he had got it sorted he started driving. 

"Hang on," John said, moving the car as quickly as he dared. He wasn't insured for her car, and with Mary close to a change, her first change, he couldn't afford to get noticed, or pulled over. Greg could help clear the way but John didn't want to call in too many favours. Instead he put his foot down and prayed that he could get there without ending up with an enraged, newly changed, confused, werewolf on his hands. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

It was a prayer that was answered. Mary panted and whimpered, shifting uncomfortably in the seat, but she stayed in human form by luck and by - John thought - utter self control. 

He turned into the driveway putting his foot down, feeling the gravel crunch under the tyres, stones skittering under the pressure. John surged through to the end of the driveway and past an archway to the small chalet at the end. He screeched to a halt, opening the door of the car and stopping dead as the gates of the archway suddenly started to close. Then he almost gave himself whiplash turning his head as the chalet door opened. Anthea stood framed in the doorway wearing nothing more than a silk robe and a pair of heeled mules. Her hair lay neatly on her shoulders. John walked around the front of the car, glaring at her. 

"What are you doing here? I told Greg I didn't want Mycroft sticking his nose in." 

Anthea strolled onto the driveway, confident even though her robe didn't hide anything of her body and her heels dipped into the ground. 

"He isn't," she announced. "Detective Inspector Lestrade contacted me regarding your issue. I am lead omega, this is my situation to deal with. Mycrof is aware of my absence but nothing more. He knows there are occasions that draw me away from my administrative duties. I supply a competent substitute and he does not questions my activities." 

"Only because Sherlock is dead," John spat as he opened the door to help Mary out. 

"No," Anthea said. "He was never lead omega, I never needed to challenge him for a position which he did not want. Nor did he ever try to take it from me."

Mary leant against John, who glared at Anthea. 

"He was the pack's prominent omega, but he never led any pack but his own. I can help her, she is safe here. Bring her in," Anthea indicated to the doorway of the chalet. "You cannot do this alone, and neither can I." 

Anthea turned and walked into the chalet. Mary limped forward, bringing John with her. 

"Are you all right? We don't have to stay here." 

"It smells," Mary inhaled deeply. "Safe." 

Anthea turned. "This is where young omegas come, in puberty, when their heats are new to them. This is a new scenario for me, but I am sure I can help your female." 

"You don't know," John glared at Anthea, who returned the gaze calmly. 

"I have never seen wolf fever, you have at least felt it."

"Shit," John said. 

Anthea look unperturbed as she moved to Mary's side and took her from John. Mary turned her head sniffed and then snarled snapping her teeth at Anthea. 

"I have no interest in John. This is the place we bring young wolves," Anthea said quite pointedly to Mary before indicating to the building. "The girls and boys due to hit puberty, and those in heats. Their cycles go to pot in those times. This is my role in the pack. Can you see Sherlock challenging me for my place?" she asked the last question to John. 

"No!" 

"Then you can understand why Sherlock and I never came into conflict." 

"But he was important to Mycroft." 

"I know. Sherlock was important to me, simply because he was important to Mycroft. I knew it from the moment they matched me to him. He needed me, Mycroft needed me, I made sure of that, but I never touched upon his desire to protect Sherlock." 

"Maybe you should have done!" 

"In retrospect yes," Anthea said. "But I cannot change what has happened, but I can help you with you with her. At least I think I can. I have never dealt with a changing human, you are a doctor so you know what might be needed." 

"What about Greg? The pack helped him." 

Anthea raised her eyebrows. "Mycroft dealt with that, and it was his decision to do so. The circumstances were not something he could ignore, or pass onto anyone else. That would have ended badly for Sherlock if nothing else. If I need information on that I will need to inform Mycroft." 

"You haven't told him." 

"No, there is no need to. Unless I need his help. As far as I know, humans changing is a risk, but preventing it means certain death," Anthea said. 

"Sherlock told me that stopping certain things happening could cause the brain to overload."

"So reducing her temperature would not be a good idea?" Anthea asked. 

John glanced at a sweat soaked Mary. "Not from what he said." 

"Right then," she shed the silk robe, leaving her naked and she went to help Mary into the tiny chalet. "We'll start from there."


	28. Change

John didn't like the room; the basic walls, the mattress on the bare floorboards, and the open windows to the terrace, leading to the garden, but he saw the logic. A naked Anthea lingered in the room but she did nothing to interfere. 

Mary lay on the mattress, panting heavily. They had removed the top layer of her clothes, but she had remained in her underwear, although Mary plucked at it in irritation when the heat became to much. John wasn't sure what to do. 

"I hardly remember my first change. I don't think I was conscious for much of it."

"That is what makes this somewhat complicated," Anthea mused. "I grew up with the knowledge. Although we cannot cool her down, surely giving her something to drink is fine, otherwise she may dehydrate." 

John bit his lip. The last thing he wanted to do was tell her to call Mycroft. Greg had followed that instruction perfectly. He had called on the right person, to some extent. Mycroft had, however, saved Greg's life. 

"You don't know anything of what happened to Lestrade?" John asked as he poured some water into a glass. Mary turned her head, her nostrils flaring as John moved closer. He helped her drink, watching as she guzzled the water.

"A little more, but drinking too fast may make you sick, which will do you no good." 

Mary rolled her eyes up to stare at him and she nodded. She sipped the next glass he offered, her hands shaking as she held the glass.

"How much longer?" she managed to gasp. John shook his head. 

"I don't know," he looked to Anthea, who for once was not focused on her phone, instead Mary had all of her attention. She also shook her head. 

"From what I know of the scenario, everyone is different. And I had no involvement in DI Lestrade's issues." She looked to Mary, addressing her directly. "You've been carrying the contamination for a while, and it's low level," she indicated to the spreading fur on Mary's leg. Then she looked at John. "Your transformation was quick, from bite to full wolf in approximately 48 hours." 

"What about Greg? Do you know how long his took?" John asked. He sure as hell did not want Mycroft involved, but another person that could answer his queries was Greg. He was there, he had suffered it and had recovered from it. The only problem was, he had received help from a source that John did not want to tap into. Still, all the theory told him, if he left this to take it's course, then Mary should be fine. Her body had to do this, it had to fight it and John remembered how painful it was, his changes were still painful; he just felt an instinct to help, to make it happen.

"It was an issue," Anthea said. "It happened during an investigation and it was impossible to hide, even Mycroft had problems with it, and naturally Greg was taken to hospital."

"That would have killed him," John said. Anthea shrugged. 

"Sherlock as well, for different reasons. Mycroft caused a bomb scare in the hospital and while everyone was distracted, we took Sherlock to a safe location... I took responsibility for that. Mycroft took Greg, possibly here," she said, looking around the room. 

"Okay," John said. "Mycroft had no one else?" 

"No, he ordered us to stay with Sherlock. I don't know where he went, I just know that he was going to force a shift onto DI Lestrade. I have no idea what happened between them, I was required to supervise Sherlock, and our DI was cared for by Mycroft. He might have run him here but I do not know. Two days later he reappeared full of health, all investigation was blocked and life went back to something normal. Lestrade had good friends, his team wanted him to stay, and he held no grudge against Sherlock, so no one could retaliate against him." 

"That was probably Mycroft." 

"No, the forgiveness was all Greg," Anthea said. "Mycroft would not force him into that, if he had to keep Sherlock contained and away from police business he would have done. Even Sherlock at that point would have agreed to that."

John sat down next to Mary, even she seemed to be listening, panting as she struggled for breath. 

"That was why Sherlock detoxed, he came off the drugs because of what he had done." 

"Of course, and everyone knew, letting him be around Greg was a permanent reminder of what was at stake."

"And then Mycroft ripped Greg's chest open." 

Anthea shook her head. "He had to do something. Sherlock took on Moriarty, and drew Greg into it. He played a game with a rogue wolf, nearly got you killed and put himself at risk. It was played too close to the human world, and Mycroft cannot let things go. If wolves thought they could run wild, can you imagine what would happen? Humans think they have control of this world, but they don't, they don't even have control of themselves sometimes. You've seen what a mob can do, by the end of it, half of them can't understand why they did what they did, they just followed."

"It was Sherlock's choice, Mycroft could have punished him."

Anthea raised her eyebrows. "He did."

John frowned. 

"Just because DI Lestrade bares the scars doesn't mean the punishment was meant for him. If Mycroft really wanted to make a point to Sherlock, you'd be carrying them."

"Let him try." 

"Mycroft is not stupid. He has no desire to truly test you to see which of you would win an all out battle, and he knows you couldn't handle the pack if you did win, which is what you would have to do."

"No, I wouldn't." 

"Yes, you would. You have high status in the pack, you took out Blake Taylor, by unorthodox means, yes; but you still fought and won. Then you earned the pack's respect because you treated his wounds. Wolves don't hold grudges, those that have tested you by encroaching on the territory backed off with their heads up, you are dominant in the pack, they lost nothing by their retreat. Some of them did not even intend to infringe, they intended to help you mourn." 

"That makes no sense." 

"That is because you sometimes ignore one instinct in favour of another." 

"Does this help me?" Mary asked. Anthea smiled at her. 

"Nice to see you are still with us," she said. "It does, because it teaches John. Mycroft could possibly force the change, but I don't think that will help here. You're strong Mary, don't fight the pain and let it flow. I don't think I am required further. In fact I think I am hindering this situation."

John felt both concerned and gladdened by her decision to retreat. 

"I will not be far, use the buzzer," she pointed to a button on the wall. "I will be here within two minutes."

John had a feeling she was going to Mycroft. Mycroft was, therefore, within two minutes of the location.

"If I need to, how do I force a change?" 

Anthea exhaled. "Be near her, let her feel that energy. You have to want to Mary, can you hold pain, can you use it?" 

"Yes." 

"Then don't let your body retreat from it when it comes. Even those of us born to it endure the pain of our bones breaking and joints moving, that is the least of it. Use the pain; it is what you need to get you through this. You have to be self-sufficient, enjoy the power, feel like a predator ready to find prey. The simplest of people have done this because they live with pain and fear and it doesn't phase them." 

"Okay," Mary said, sounding confused. 

Anthea pulled on the robe. "I will dress, I will not be far away if you require me. However, clothing, of any kind, is restrictive when you change. John is contradictory, he is amorous around women, but then strangely prudish."

"I am a doctor!" John said. 

"And you cannot treat her like a patient, she is to become a wolf, an omega; who has been around an alpha. You know the strength of that bond." 

"It's not the same." 

"No, but if you felt nothing, then you could have passed her to the pack to help her, and your conscience would be clear." 

John felt indecisive, all of a sudden, as Anthea pointed that out and then left. She wasn't far, and he could call her back, but he couldn't help feeling that this was some sort of test. But again that made no sense to him. The pack didn't want him, he was tolerated because Mycroft ordered it. Although Anthea had just pointed out that he was part of the pack, he had fought members of the group and in winning, gained status. He had also looked after them, he was not just an aggressor, but a protector; he was everything an alpha should be. 

He turned from pondering that, since Anthea had discreetly left, to find Mary had undone her bra and was in the process of pulling the straps off her shoulders. Her breasts were bare and John tried not to stare at them. 

"It makes sense," Mary said, discarding the bra and she started to pull off her knickers. She couldn't really co-ordinate her legs, and her hands scrabbled uselessly to remove the material. John inhaled, which was not helpful as his senses registered the omega scent, and he decided to stop using breathing as a calming technique. 

"Help me!" Mary snapped and John shook himself before reaching up to pull the material off her. Mary shifted about, utterly unconscious of John's stare as she tried to get comfortable, then she seemed to realise that he was staring at her. 

"Is sex involved in this?" 

"What?!" he yelped, feeling the heat rush to his face. "No! Of course not!" His voice rose in pitch causing Mary to smirk. 

"Sorry, I heard stories." 

John for a moment wondered if that meant him alone, since he was fairly notorious. Then he realised it meant the running ignorance of wolf behaviour, and the human propaganda that went with it. Dominance meant sex to most humans, for some reason; but to a wolf it meant something else entirely. 

"No, none of those are true." 

His mind flashed with the times he had become close to Sherlock, when he was in heat, sometimes even blanking out for a few seconds as he got close to him. Not that Sherlock ever worried, he had no fear that John would force him in any way. John's protective alpha instincts would stop him, because he was sure of Sherlock. Sherlock had not wanted any other alpha in his life. 

It was, however, another reason contaminated humans avoided seeking help from born wolves, and even experienced bittens. 

"And I've been around an omega in heat, there will be nothing like that, although if I need to be close to force a change..." he paused, trying to work it out logistically. 

"How do you do that?" Mary prompted. "Change I mean, what do you do?" 

"I sort of start on my hands and knees, then I lose all co-ordination and it goes downhill from there." 

"Like this?" Mary moved so she lay under John, who was in his basic change position. "Is this the best way to make it work?" 

John shook his head. "I don't know. I can get Anthea back." 

Mary shook her head, strands of hair stuck to her face and she tried to brush them away, her scent was strengthening, John just wanted to stay where he was and keep breathing. He had avoided the pack and most especially the omegas. The ones that had moved into the territory probably had wanted to mourn with him, but they were also seeking him out as an alpha, that wanted an omega. John didn't want. He didn't want Mary and as far as he could tell this was nothing about wanting him, she just wanted this dealt with. John wondered how that was, living with the contamination that would one day take you over. He didn't live with it, the uncertainty of it; he had been human, a medic, then he had been bitten and he had been injured and stressed and his pack mates... squad mates.... had needed help, they needed to be found, they needed help and they were trapped, it required someone to sneak out and find the search party coming to look for them. John had known what was needed, his mind had considered that and... 

had done what he needed to do...  
he looked down at Mary, and he knew what he needed to do. 

Instead of trying to hide from the memories, he took hold of them... even the one he didn't want to see, and his own voice echoed in his brain. 

"Sherlock!"


	29. Flashback

Heat and pain. 

It was all he thought about when he changed. It was hot, the sun crashing down on him. Everything felt so sensitive like millions of ants crawling across his skin. He itched on the inside. They had wrapped up his hands to try and prevent him from hurting himself. He had been caught digging his nails into his arm, ripping the skin off, trying to get to the incomprehensible pain underneath. His comrades had not know what else to do with him. They had left him alone, and looked to him for his, and their, survival. 

That was all he remembered after he had been bitten. He didn't even remember the pain in his shoulder, where the bite had occurred. It wasn't something he thought about. Sherlock had examined it intimately, measuring the bite radius, gauging the length and width of the teeth. He had estimated the height and weight of the wolf in question, also concluded that he was left handed. 

"He also meant to kill," Sherlock said. "You wear protective clothing as a solider. That stopped him from killing you. It saved your life, but you became a wolf because of it. Your instinct to survive, and to protect your squad became very paramount in your mind." 

John remembered how Sherlock looked at it, again and again he asked questions and analysed it. In response John had become increasingly angry and the last straw had been Sherlock getting the military report from Mycroft. John had found it entirely by accident on a 'danger night' and he knew Sherlock's hiding places. Sherlock knew John wouldn't probe them without good cause, Mycroft had hinted at a cause, John had found the report on what had happened and pinned Sherlock to a wall as a result. Sherlock had relaxed and submitted astonishingly quickly to John's anger and his orders to stay the hell away from him.

Then John had realised how much distress that put Sherlock in, not that the omega would ever admit it or to some extent even realise it was what he was feeling, and John had relented. But it now made him think, it made him think about how he changed, and what he did to cause every action and reaction within him. 

His fangs and claws came first. John was a fighter, and he needed his weapons. Then his fur shot out through his skin, because he had often thought about what he looked like. He had never been confident enough to look at himself while he changed or even find a way to do so. The horror of what might be happening in those short, very long feeling, seconds was too much for him to think about. 

Was it is own mind, or how it happened, that made him an alpha?

That question plagued him. Sentimentalists, certainly not Sherlock and Mycroft, might have said it was fate. A male omega, rare but not unheard of, drawing in the only bitten male alpha in the world. Alphas were rare, a handful on each continent, who managed things. It had become very civilised. Omegas were carefully bred with alphas, or strong betas, if there was nothing else available. Male omegas did not always upset the balance, if they were turned out of a pack then they tended to disappear. Sherlock upset the balance of his pack and was a prime example of why they were expelled, but Mycroft, a most unsentimental man, would never do that. Sherlock was his omega. He had also taken Anthea as his, because it was required, and he had taken a sensible, calculating woman as his omega, one who would allow Sherlock's existence because she knew, he was no threat. 

Then John had made everything work out. 

All those thoughts happened in seconds. 

Sherlock was gone and therefore John was left without definition. He had been lost after the army had dismissed him so easily and then Sherlock had seemed to take over the role of defining him as something, a useful component of something larger that worked between them, with Greg as an intermediary and someone who could run interference between them and Mycroft. Then Sherlock was gone, the flat filling, or emptying, with his scent. 

That was the worst part, the slowly fading scent. John had not been able to stand it after a certain point. It was fine to come back to the flat and scent Sherlock, to feel his presence from the traces in the air. However, the materials could only hold it for so long, and then it slowly started to fade. Mrs Hudson seemed to realised that too much cleaning would take that away and she had refrained from anything but the simplest of touches, but even then, she couldn't stop it. 

In the end it had to be faced, Sherlock was gone and he was never coming back, a fact that John's alpha took badly. And he hadn't liked to admit it but the smell of Mary's undemanding omega made it easier. She didn't flirt, or push her scent on him, she didn't really comprehend it but she realised at certain times of the month she was more abhorrent to John and always carefully kept her distance. 

But still, his alpha had become accustomed to her scent and then as she became distressed his alpha reacted. 

John yelled out as he felt his back almost rip open, his wolf ran through him and, dimly, he heard another scream. 

It took him a moment to try and work it out, but the influence ran from him to her. The same as it had from Sherlock to him, and between Moriarty and himself. Sherlock controlled what he did to John and tried to limit the damage, reading something in John that would not welcome the advance. It had been made quite clear after Sherlock had, very directly, asked how rough John was during sex. It was not a come-on in any way, shape or form, Sherlock just needed to know. John knew enough about Sherlock to read the fact that he wanted to be forewarned, and John was not naive, he realised it had happened to Sherlock; an acceptable part of their world, which Sherlock found unacceptable. Mycroft finding it unacceptable was the crux of it and there was a limit to what the alpha could do. John found it unacceptable and could easily be with Sherlock during his heats, even if he blacked out, running into rut, his own nature pulled him back. 

It actually baffled him that Moriarty had managed to take it so far. But he had. Flashes of memory told John that. 

He snapped back to reality as he felt teeth latch onto his shoulder and a body scrabbled underneath him. John reared back, moving off Mary, who had been lying on her back and with him on top could not right herself. As he moved away she rolled onto her belly, looking up at him warily. John backed up, looking at the light coloured wolf with just as much caution. His usual lone instinct niggled at the back of his mind. He had only ever liked being around Sherlock. Greg had been a tolerable presence, but Sherlock was the only one John had been accepting of. 

Still, Mary's scent was deeply impregnated into his psyche. He inched forward, nostrils flaring. Mary rumbled, unsure of the situation. It was her first time as a wolf, instinct would dominate her behaviour. John continued to slowly move forward, sniffing as he took in her scent. The familiarity of his, he knew, would be soothing.

John snuffled his nose into her side. Mary gave a snarl, lifted her head slightly, and snarled again, ears moving as she listened to the sounds she made. John huffed back and lightly licked her shoulder. As he moved to sniff her his nose, naturally, drifted to her haunches. He knew what he was scenting, an area which all canines' felt inclined to check out. The supra-caudal gland. 

Naturally Mary's was not as developed as Sherlock's. So John did find himself probing harder, which caused the omega to turn and snap. John snarled back but eased away from her turning to look at the open doors. He jogged over and looked outside, cautiously assessing the area. There would be no danger. No doubt there were security systems, and although no longer present, Anthea was to hand, plus others in the pack, if not Mycroft himself. 

Mary yapped, sounding like an excited puppy and she streaked out onto the grass. Concerned and excited, John ran out in her wake. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Woah, easy there!" 

The voice penetrated into John's psyche, but he didn't react swiftly, although something stirred in his mind. 

"It's just a steak," Greg's voice announced, answered by a growl. John jerked awake, moving to all fours, almost losing co-ordination, but he saved himself at the last minute as he realised he had shifted back in his sleep. 

Greg caught that out of the corner of his eye, and couldn't help but smile as he concentrated on offering the steak out to Mary, still in wolf form. She snarled, eyed the meat, assessed him, snarled a bit more - less aggressively - then turned as she heard John scuffling behind her. 

"What are you doing here?" John demanded. Greg raised his eyebrows. 

"Anthea presumed I'd be the most friendly face, or at least the only one who might get a civil word out of you. Guess she misjudged that. But I also brought food, as you haven't eaten since you changed." 

John tried to ignore the arched looked his friend was giving him, as he tried to steady himself, feeling weakened by the shift and the fight he had clearly been involved in with Mary. There was blood on her fur, and she was very tentative on her left hind leg. She favoured it as she inched towards Greg, and the tempting food he was offering. 

Greg took the sensible precaution of putting it on the floor and easing backwards, to allow her to take it without feeling threatened. Greg knew what a first change was like, with all the feelings and confusion that went with it. Mary inched forward, sniffing and growling at Greg. He kept her in his line of sight as he glanced up at John. 

"Are you all right?" 

"Yeah," John said while eyeing a bite mark on his shoulder. 

"I'll get the first aid kit," Greg said slowly getting up from his crouched position. Mary growled at him again. 

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Greg told her. Mary paused, looking up at him in confusion, a half chewed steak hanging out of her mouth. Greg threw the rest of the bag at John and disappeared into the hallway. John unwrapped the rest of the food, a cluster of steaks and a large joint. Mary finished the steak Greg had given her and went in for another. She had almost half eaten that one, when she gave a pained yelp, dropping it from her jaws, the remaining meat falling with a wet plop. Then she crashed over. 

"Greg!" John yelled. 

He came crashing back with the first aid kit in his arms and skidded to a halt. 

"What's...?" John asked. 

"She's changing back. It's hard the first few times if you are conscious." 

Greg dropped the kit, it broke open as it landed but he stepped over it to reach her, taking her arm before she smacked her hand on the floor. 

"Get her leg!" Greg shouted as he heard the snap. John caught it before she slammed her heel onto the floor. 

"How?" 

"I think you passed out for your first few, at least the ones Sherlock knew about!" Greg said over Mary as she yelped, but she sounded more human. Even as they restrained her to stop her hurting herself, and waited until the thrashing died. They heard her take several deep breaths and Greg released his hold turning to fiddle with the broken first aid kit. 

"Most of it will sort itself out, the cuts and bruises don't go away though." 

"My ankle," Mary managed to gasp as she recovered her breath. 

John reached to feel it. "Sprained I think." 

"It sometimes happens in your first few changes, it might hurt for now, but it will fade, I'll get the ice pack, we have many for such an occasion," 

Since Greg came back with one specifically to wrap around an ankle Mary guessed it was many a time the joints were damaged. 

"Not just bitten humans, it happens to the bred ones, the first time they change. It can vary, plus there is heats and ruts and it's quite variable."

"You know a lot," Mary commented unconsciously putting her arm across her breasts as it slowly dawned on her she was naked in front of the two men. John got up and retrieved a blanket for her. 

"Pack law," Greg said. "Very complicated, but it's a good safety net." 

"Not for us," John snapped as he covered Mary. She tucked the blanket around herself, looking from one man to the other, neither of whom had really paid attention to her naked form. Greg met John's glare steadily. 

"I didn't have anyone else to ask when you called John, and quite frankly even though you were calling me, who did you think you were really asking?"

"You didn't need to tell him." 

"He's the alpha, you already accepted that I can't not tell him."

"What will he do if you don't?" 

Greg shook his head as Mary asked the question. "Best stay out of that. Presumably you will be welcome around Baker Street, and the parks, so you won't be molested, not in John's territory, but you won't stop Mycroft being involved, everything affects him. He won't even allow you to be compromised, we are to follow orders and run protection detail if you need it." 

"I don't need protecting," John snapped. 

"Only from yourself, most of the time," Greg said. 

"Is this about his friend, Sherlock?" Mary turned as she sensed John tense. "You used the name a few times, it is a name right?" 

"Yes, it's a name," John said. 

Mary felt the ripple of tension as the two men looked at it each. They were clearly united in grief and loss, but there was something that divided them. She hadn't learnt much from John. Over the last few months she had been able to glean little snippets of information, interpreting the gossip that came from other quarters, sifting it to find the real facts.

Greg shrugged his shoulders, looking a little uncomfortable, but he knew when to retreat. 

"I just came to check you were all right. There are clothes for you in the opposite room, and you can just pull the door closed on the way out."

"I suppose we ought to tidy up before we go," Mary said looking around at the muddy paw prints, and ripped up mattress. 

"No you don't," Greg said. "I'll see you." 

Mary frowned as he disappeared out of the door, she turned to look at John. 

"He says that like he doesn't expect that to happen." 

"He's a pack wolf, I'm not." 

Greg winced as he heard that last comment. He let himself out of the house and headed down the driveway, out of the gate and walked down the road unsurprised when the sleek dark car overtook him, then stopped at the kerb, the back door opening. He got in without hesitating, dropping into the seat with his back to the driver, and facing Mycroft and Anthea. The omega glanced up from her phone, smiled at him, which told Greg everything was fine, and nothing bad was about to happen, before looking down again. The conversation was nothing to do with her. Mycroft was holding court. 

"Everything's fine," Greg said. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 

"Yes, I am aware of that. How attached to this female is Dr Watson?" 

Anthea raised her eyebrows as his tone, but didn't look up. 

"I'm not sure. She's worked at the surgery for months, as a nurse and on reception, and she's pretty so John.... well .... he's John." 

Anthea smirked, Mycroft glanced at her and scowled, Anthea's smirk grew smug. Mycroft decided to ignore her and glare at Greg. 

"Are they in a relationship?" 

"No," Greg said. "I don't think he minds her as a female, but I'm not sure he's too keen on her as an omega, although he'd never ignore something he saw as a duty of care, which this was. The people of the surgery would treat wolf fever the wrong way and he knew that." 

"Will his 'duty of care' extend beyond this?" 

"Probably, I think in a way that means he wants to keep her away from you." 

Mycroft's eyes flashed and Greg cringed inwardly as the chauffer snorted. There was a grinding of gears as Blake Taylor struggled with the car for a moment, no doubt very aware that his reaction would be analysed by his Pack Alpha. He had been forced to recover his place in the Pack after John had injured him and to add insult to injury he was the one Mycroft had put in place to take out Moriarty's sniper on John. He had been very tempted to allow the shot before he took the danger out, but Mycroft had worded himself with a clear warning of what a failure to carry out his duty would result in. 

What had happened to Greg for disobeying orders was mild in comparison to what would happen to him. As much as he had loathed John, Blake loved himself enough to go with the path of self-preservation. This was one reason Greg had fought so hard in the Pack. There had been no intention of gaining status, he was forced to stand up for himself because the Pack hated his origin, and the fact that Mycroft had brought him into the fold to protect Sherlock's reputation and status. Greg was immaterial to Mycroft other than his connection to Sherlock, and Sherlock reacted badly to a reminder of what he had risked by his careless actions. 

"I think if she needs it, he'll allow her to use the Baker Street territory," Greg said. There were clear lines of Sherlock's safe territory, which his Guardian Alpha continued to maintain even though he no longer lived within it, although he was not far away. 

"But I think he's best left alone," Greg added, Mycroft's glare hardened, until, without looking up, Anthea said. 

"I agree." 

Mycroft didn't look pleased, but he sat back and let the subject go. Greg wasn't confused by the fact that Mycroft deferred to his omega, but what did muddle the issue was Anthea glancing up to wink at Greg. 

There was something Greg wasn't seeing in this, and he should have done. 

He really should.


	30. Random Scent

Mycroft caught it just on the corner. He stayed back from the mass of people congregated in the square, waiting to find out that a new pope had been chosen. Mycroft already knew, a day ahead. It was the reason he was here, the British government sending him to meet a few people, directing the decisions the right way. 

Personally it didn’t interest him. The Catholic church had, centuries ago, denounced werewolves as minions of the devil, or some such rubbish. He had no particular concern about the church, but he had been sent by others who did. The subtle meetings had amused him as he gently directed decisions, wondering what some of the other people in the room would make of him had they known the reality of what he really was. 

It also meant that no werewolves were close to Rome. When he had travelled he had made a courtesy call to the nearest pack who held territory on the Italian/French border, but he wouldn't come into conflict with any pack members. 

Which was why the scent took him by surprise. 

He paused as he picked up the light trace, but his body reacted, immediately picking up the familiarity. A scent that caused the usual protective and aggressive reactions within him. Male omega; Sherlock. 

The immediate temptation to shift and track the scent almost shattered his self control. He stayed still, keeping a lock down on his reactions as he walked slowly, following the trace a short distance. It wasn't old, it had been left within the last day or so. Mycroft paused again, processing the information as calmly as he could. 

His mind busily assimilated the evidence his senses now received. He couldn't be fooled, he had known the scent since he had stuck his nose into two-day-old Sherlock's cot to find out what the adults in his life had been making such a fuss about. Once he had taken a good sniff of the baby he still hadn't been sure of the problem, but it meant Sherlock's smell had been deeply ingrained into his psyche. And his to Sherlock. 

Mycroft knew his parents had engineered the situation to limit the contact they had with their young son. Instead they had a nanny, a beta, pack born but a low standing family. Mycroft didn’t pay her any attention, she was beneath his notice. Sherlock’s baby mind had clearly thought the same. It was never her scent he followed, once he was able to crawl. The one scent he always followed was Mycroft’s.

Turning on the spot Mycroft glared at the two wolves he had brought with him. Both of them were studiously looking around at the scenery. He didn’t really need them but just as a matter of form he had brought them. Now they were pretending that they hadn’t picked up the same scent. One look and an inclination of his head told them that they hadn't. 

"Return to the hotel, at an appropriate moment," Mycroft ordered them. "Take a slow route." 

Four coded words within that sentence told them to go away and Mycroft could look after himself. It was ludicrous most of the time, he had beaten the crap out of most of his guards; people that could not win against him protected him. What it did show was loyalty. They were his pack, they followed him, they would, if ordered, die for him. Not that Mycroft would do so. The strength he displayed by toting around such guards was in the fact that he commanded them, without question. Members of other packs treated him respectfully, warily, because he had such a grip on the English wolves. 

Except the little fool who had no doubt known he would find his alpha here. 

Mycroft followed the scent through the city streets. Sherlock had paused in several places, leaving a stronger trace of himself to allow Mycroft to find him through the layers of scents that riddled the city. 

The little cafe was small, most people sitting outside to enjoy the best of the day. Mycroft found Sherlock inside, tucked away in the darkest corner, and he hardly reacted as Mycroft slid into the booth with him. Sherlock kept his eyes on the small cup of espresso on the table in front of him. As the waiter approached Mycroft smoothly ordered and within a few minutes a cup had been neatly deposited in front of him. Like Sherlock, he made no attempt to drink it. 

"This was a risky manoeuvre, was it not?" Mycroft eventually said. 

"No one will expect any of us to be here. I wonder what they would think of the 'devil's minions' running loose in their city." 

"I, and I also hope you, have better sense than to run loose through the Vatican City."

Sherlock smirked, staring at his coffee rather than his alpha. "It'd be fun." 

His tone of voice didn't entirely seem to agree with that assessment. 

"Was there a purpose to your visit?" Mycroft asked. 

"I knew you'd be here, although you normally hate legwork." 

"My presence here is no explanation for yours. You have made a significant dent in the network." 

"I've tugged a few knots, it's starting to now unravel, although it may take a while longer."

Mycroft reached out and sipped at his drink. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, he'd tip the discreet waiter, who had not so much looked at them again. 

"Neither of us were fool enough to believe this would be a neat, or swift, job."

"No," said Sherlock. Mycroft read his body language but did not react to it. At least not yet. 

"You were willing to accept it."

"I had no other choice."

"Moriarty manoeuvred us both well." 

Sherlock's gaze shifted slightly, but he had better sense than to look up, so he kept his head and eyes lowered in a vaguely deferential way. 

"Someone beat you, Mycroft." 

"The game is not played out." 

"He beat me," Sherlock said. 

It was not an entirely accurate statement, Mycroft thought, out loud he said.

"You have been out-manoeuvred, not beaten, Sherlock." 

Mycroft didn't speak his brother's name, he growled it. Sherlock's posture went even more submissive and he inclined towards Mycroft. In the end Mycroft relented - it was always his problem when it came to Sherlock - and reached up to take the scruff of his brother's neck, pulling him closer and sniffing deeply. Sherlock's scent was strong, he had just been through a heat, but what was also clear about his scent was just how pure it was. There was no tone of pack to it, he had been without them for over a year, and avoided all others. His omega brother had been quite alone, and it was no wonder he had risked coming here, his instinct telling him he needed the comfort of a familiar scent. 

At the acceptance Sherlock all but crawled into his lap. He felt Sherlock's leg straddle his thighs, and Mycroft exhaled heavily. 

"Not here, we cannot do this here. Two days from now, out beyond the city." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxX

It was the only reason that Mycroft delayed his return. The bodyguards said nothing of the change of plan, or the fact that Mycroft told them he planned to run alone. He could rely on the pair of them to be silent, and they would wait until he was done. 

With that in mind he slipped off into the wilderness, leaving his suit neatly folded in a safe place, tucked within a hollow in the rocks which Sherlock had given him directions to, and he padded off, leaping over obstacles and letting his legs stretch. Despite his general self control he could not help but enjoy the feeling of running over new territory, sniffing the ground and air, taking in something new. He would collect the sights and scents and keep them carefully within his subconscious. The sun warmed his back as he leapt over the rocks, slowing down as Sherlock's scent drifted on the wind. He was deliberately moving upwind of Mycroft. There was no need to hide, there was no hint of any other werewolves around, they could run with freedom. Mycroft felt his tail start to wag, leaping a small gully with abandon. Such moments were rare for him. Heading the pack, and then his work, meant he had very little time to himself; it was a struggle to accommodate Sherlock's needs within that. Time alone was usually spent dealing with something that might happen, or influencing other areas to draw it into his sphere of influence. Very rarely did Mycroft let his nature take control. But now he could. 

He slowed as the scent became stronger, Sherlock's direction had changed, moving towards him, circling slightly, to no doubt try and take him by surprise. Not that he was trying very hard. Sherlock was trying to be hunted, and making it easy for an alpha to follow the trail. Like any good omega he wanted to be found. However, at the end of it all, Sherlock was never a good omega. 

Mycroft ducked under a low fissure of rock, his nose to the ground. So intent on the trail he forgot that Sherlock would have gone up. But it was not so late that he couldn't counter attack as he felt the weight land on him. Mycroft rolled and then ran a short distance turning to glare at his younger brother. 

He was, quite naturally, met with a whirlwind of claws and fur. Mycroft lashed out, latching his teeth into Sherlock's pelt. Several seconds later he realised it was his brother's shoulder and he didn't have quite the grip he would have liked. He released and used his greater bulk to slam himself against Sherlock. Mycroft pushed Sherlock into the rocks and his little brother used his feet to run forward and get out of his way. Then Sherlock spun round to look at him, he panted and wagged his tail before turning to run. 

Then the chase was on. 

Despite the open space, they didn't want to go too far, or lose each other, but Sherlock led a merry dance. He skittered away three times when Mycroft though he had him, but in the end Mycroft's calculations worked correctly. He could always anticipate Sherlock's reactions. But it was Sherlock's counter calculation that Mycroft had to track. 

The feint was perfect as Sherlock ducked away, but too late he realised that Mycroft had guessed his tactic and the alpha was on him. Sherlock felt the bulk drive him to the ground jaws clamped on the scruff of his neck. Mycroft huffed and growled as he drove Sherlock down, determined to dominate him. Sherlock tensed as his brother got the better of him, but he knew he couldn't do anything about it. Every instinct inside him told him to behave, he didn't want to drive Mycroft away if nothing else. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, could never behave like that. He thrashed violently against the restraining grip, trying to get free. Mycroft hung on, entirely used to Sherlock's behaviour, and he made sure he wasn't getting away. He dug his paws into the ground, digging furrows into the soil as Sherlock pulled him, snarling and snapping. 

In the end, however, Sherlock knew he wasn't getting anywhere, and lowered himself to the ground, deliberately relaxing. Mycroft continued to hold on, giving an enquiring snarl. Sherlock grunted back to tell him it wasn't a ploy to get Mycroft to let him go. 

After a further few seconds he felt Mycroft let him go. Sherlock stayed still as his brother slowly stepped back. Lifting his head Sherlock glowered at Mycroft. Mycroft huffed in response, turning to sniff, trying to pick out any hint of prey. Sherlock slowly rose up, staying low, but getting to his feet and getting ready to run, this time with Mycroft, rather than against him. Mycroft sniffed a little more, catching a scent of rabbit. He jogged down a small slope and sniffed the ground again. Sherlock pressed his muzzle to Mycroft's flank, waiting patiently. Mycroft scanned the area, watching every inch of the landscape carefully. Sherlock was slightly distracting as he snuffled his nose against Mycroft, taking in the scent, one had not had regular access to. Turning his head Mycroft rubbed his muzzle against Sherlock, whose tail started to wag and he licked Mycroft. 

He turned and ran down the slight slope, Sherlock on his heels. They moved steadily over the landscape, Sherlock keeping pace with Mycroft. It had been a long while since it had just been the pair of them on a hunt, but they fell into the easy pattern of movement that had been common when they had been younger. 

Mycroft paused again as the wind changed direction slightly. Sherlock snarled, and Mycroft sensed him tense as they caught the scent of rabbits. It was never the most of exciting of prey, but it could be a challenge to catch, and they did have a tendency to be adaptable to most places, and therefore easy to find. Sherlock rubbed his head against Mycroft's side in gesture of impatience. Mycroft huffed and then turned and headed off, Sherlock jogged next to him, although he held himself back slightly as an omega should. Not that Sherlock would maintain that decorum for long, but Mycroft had never bothered to discipline his brother for his behaviour when they were alone. It had probably not helped Sherlock in the long run, when dealing with the pack but Mycroft had wanted to give Sherlock some leniency for the flack he received. 

This time however, Sherlock's behaviour held. As they saw the first flash of fur and Mycroft darted forward. Sherlock dashed left, sending the rabbit skittering away and Mycroft pounced, catching the beast and there was a crunch as he bit down on his neck. 

Sherlock had the second one that ran from the hole, his jaws clamping down hard, feeling the body jerk as he bit into it and blood spurted into his mouth.

The prey was not entirely satisfying but there was something about hunting with Mycroft that soothed Sherlock, especially after being without the pack for so long. As much as he would never admit it, spending time with Mycroft, without any other distractions, was usually fairly enjoyable for him. In then end they gave up hunting and instead merely ran across the landscape. Sherlock dodged around nipping at Mycroft until he got fed up with his younger brother and turned on him. 

Sherlock yelped as Mycroft barrelled into him. He rolled with the momentum and got his feet back under him, ducking under Mycroft's snapping jaws. He felt his brother's teeth catch on his tail, then Sherlock pulled free and ran. Behind him Mycroft followed, determined to catch him. Sherlock jumped up onto a scree of rocks and ducked down the other side, slowing down as he reached the bottom. He jogged further down and clambered up again. Mycroft hadn't taken the direct route behind him. Sherlock padded carefully up the rocks, sniffing the air to try and locate him. He knew Mycroft would be stalking him. 

Such a thing was a fairly even match. Sherlock moved slowly, keeping low, ears swivelling on his head and he sniffed the air again, trying to sense Mycroft's direction. Slowly Sherlock padded forward, easing himself away from the rock face. It was, he calculated, better to be in the open, so at least he had room to manoeuvre when Mycroft struck.

He waited, sniffing the air, murmuring in confusion, when no such attack happened. Sherlock turned in a circle, still sniffing, but picking nothing up from the gentle breeze. Bearing his teeth in a snarl he turned and went downwind, presuming that Mycroft was heading from that direction. He scrambled back up the scree, his claws scrabbling against the loose rocks and as he reached the top he looked around, again growling in confusion. His tail stilled and his body tensed, unsure what had happened. Slowly he scrabbled down and jogged around the area, sniffing the ground. He caught traces of Mycroft as well as his own scent. It criss-crossed the area, making it unclear which direction to take. 

Sherlock hunkered down, his senses on alert. The area was deserted, and there was no danger of werewolf hunters within this area. Sherlock had two options to consider; his brother was waiting for him to walk into a trap or something had happened to him. If anything had happened, he would have called, unless something had gone badly wrong. Sherlock kept his nose to the ground, sniffing intently to try and find the newest scent. Heading back towards the scree he lurched as he saw a blur of movement. As Mycroft barrelled into him Sherlock bared his teeth, snapping at Mycroft as he tried to pin him. Sherlock tried to avoid the momentum that brought him down but Mycroft was quicker, and stronger and Sherlock was on the ground in seconds. He snarled, then whined as a stone stabbed into his skin. Mycroft gave a reassuring growl, licking at Sherlock's neck, in response Sherlock growled, but the tension in the sound lowered as Mycroft continued to lick his brother's fur. He felt Sherlock relax under him, and although he couldn't often trust that Sherlock would behave himself he released him and stepped back. 

Sitting up Sherlock gazed up at Mycroft. Leaning down Mycroft licked Sherlock's muzzle and he responded by licking back. They snuffled at each other for a moment and Sherlock lay down again, sprawling on his side. Mycroft sniffed along Sherlock's belly, licking around his ribs, nipping his exposed belly. Sherlock grunted in contentment. Mycroft gave a rumble of approval and nudged Sherlock to his feet. 

They trotted back to where they left their clothes. The sun was dipping down in the sky, casing a red glow across the scenery. Mycroft sniffed out the area, casting cautious looks around, not that they were likely to be interrupted. They had seen no one throughout the course of the day, and they were unlikely to be interrupted now. 

Mycroft gave a dramatic sigh as Sherlock curled up, tucking his legs close to his body and settling his nose on the tip of his tail. His eyes watched Mycroft steadily, waiting for his response. Slowly Mycroft moved, curling himself up against Sherlock, and Sherlock shifted to accommodate his brother close to his side, although he grumbled as Mycroft's tongue swept over his fur, cleaning him up. 

And they settled down to sleep.


	31. Return

Greg paused as he heard something rattle in the darkness. The cigarette he was about to light lingered on his lips and the lighter remained cupped in his hands. Lifting his eyes he looked around carefully, and readied himself. Whoever it was, the wolf, was downwind so he had no clear scent. Only his instinct could tell him it was a wolf and it paid to be wary. There were always challenges occurring within the pack, especially being as transient as they were nowadays. When any wolf moved into a new area there were always scuffles to place them in the pecking order. 

Greg had been through enough of them over the years. It didn't always happen, some didn't bother with him, as he was bitten and beneath notice; some attacked for that reason believing he had no business being in the pack; and some seriously wanted to challenge his status. He was high ranking in the scheme of things, respected by some, derided by others but he kept - had kept- Sherlock out of their way, acting as a guardian to him and often having to fight to defend him. 

The memory seemed to activate something him as he caught a trace of familiarity within the scent as the wind shifted, or the wolf had moved, circling him. Greg sniffed again, picking up the scents of his surroundings and even more. He tensed, staying very still as he heard the click of claws and a flash of light caught the wolf's eyes as it trotted forward. Greg squinted as he located the slowly moving form, separating itself from the shadows gleaming in the light. There was no mistaking the dark fur and light eyes. 

Greg looked down at Sherlock whose tail wagged tentatively rising up as he inched forward. Greg pocketed his lighter and took the cigarette out of his mouth. Sherlock growled disapprovingly as his eyes followed it. Greg exhaled the breath he had been holding and his heart thumped in his chest. 

Oddly he didn't feel surprised to see Sherlock, to realise that he had somehow evaded death. 

"Oh, you bastard!" Greg exclaimed. Sherlock rumbled, then yelped as Greg dropped down and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock wriggled, a little disconcerted by the reaction, and not entirely understanding it. 

Wolves were physical and demonstrative but Greg's reaction was clearly human. His hand ran through Sherlock's fur, which was more settling and Sherlock tilted his head to lick the side of Greg's neck and he pushed his body against him in a hint. Greg pulled back and looked at Sherlock, who licked Greg's jaw and wagged his tail. Greg frowned as Sherlock head-butted his shoulder. 

"Seriously, now; Sherlock?!" 

Sherlock rumbled his assent and nudged Greg again. 

"Sherlock, I can't... oh for God's sake!" Greg yelped as Sherlock shoved harder and knocked Greg on his backside. Sherlock's ears and tail dropped and he gave another rumble. 

"All right, I'll put my clothes in the car." 

Sherlock wagged his tail, tongue lolling out of his mouth. 

"Where are yours?" Greg asked, yanking off his coat, rummaging for his car keys, jumping as his phone rang and he groaned as he looked at the call display. Sherlock snarled, baring his teeth as Greg answered the phone with two words. 

"My Alpha." 

"Sherlock's clothes have been picked up from the alley he changed in, although he ruined them completely." 

Mycroft sounded offended, which Greg had slowly realised meant concerned, at least when talking about Sherlock. But Greg took the hint, Sherlock had randomly, stressfully, changed. Greg didn't bother to ask how much of a danger night this was; as Sherlock was here, not with John; who would, more than likely, have been with Mary. 

Sherlock wouldn't challenge another omega, not over John. He would, in the end, let John decide. Plus John had been the most damaged by his death, Greg contemplated what his reaction to Sherlock's return had been like, and he winced, for both of them.

"Right," Greg said as Mycroft hung up on him. He opened the car boot, threw in his coat and then stripped. Sherlock padded to the front of the car, keeping an eye out for any intruders while Greg shut the boot and then looked at the keys in his hand; then at Sherlock. Greg opened the passenger door and shut the keys in the glove compartment. Mycroft knew where they were and what they were doing. There would be eyes on the car when they left. 

He retreated to the back of the car to shift. Sherlock stopped pacing which was not only for security but to give Greg privacy as he went through the change. 

It was not the same painful process that John knew. The change certainly hurt, Greg felt his bones snapping but it seemed to have a flow to it as his body reacted to what his mind wanted to do. Greg had never found it too hard but a competent, ruthless, Alpha had drawn him through the first change forcing him into it. To save his life, perhaps, but Mycroft probably had far more selfish reasons to do with Sherlock.

Greg shook himself and padded out to find Sherlock who had sprawled out in front of the car. As Greg came out to find him he lifted his head and rose elegantly onto his feet. Greg trotted forward and went nose to nose, sniffing at Sherlock, rumbling deeply in his chest as he smelt blood. Sherlock snorted, flipping his muzzle away from Greg.

Instead Greg snuffled his nose into Sherlock's neck and then moved to his shoulder, sniffing the familiar scent which sparked through his brain. Sherlock gently moved his nose into Greg's fur, pausing at the bare patch on his side where the silver fur never grew. Greg gave a grunt and took advantage of both Sherlock's remorse and John's absence to sniff Sherlock's hip and then to the top of his tail, then underneath to inhale the omega scent of Sherlock's supra-caudal glance. 

Whatever it was scientifically, it just smelt nice. Sherlock had a distinctive scent in human form, that often annoyed other wolves. Greg was still human and Sherlock's scent appealed to him. If John had been there Greg's nose wouldn't have gone anywhere near Sherlock's tail gland, so he took full advantage to inhale as much as he could, and Sherlock didn't reject him, his tail rose, moving lightly, and the scent increased as he responded to Greg's attention. 

For a few minutes all they did was snuffle their noses against each other, Sherlock dipping his nose back towards Greg's flank, and then lingering on the bald section of skin on Greg's side. That had a scent all of it's own, slightly unpleasant due to the historical infection that occurred. Even when he licked the skin Sherlock was left with a bad taste on his tongue. Greg growled as he felt the touch and swivelled his side away from Sherlock. He sniffed at Sherlock's muzzle again and then worked his way lower again. Before Greg could be utterly distracted by his scent Sherlock moved away, bounding across the car park. He paused and turned, wagging his tail and waiting for Greg. Greg followed, bounding after him, following Sherlock out of the car park and into the street, moving carefully through the shadows, and as Sherlock moved east, Greg gave an uncertain rumble, but he followed. Whatever Sherlock was playing at, Greg had been tempted enough to follow. 

And follow he did. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"I brought those files you wanted, bloody hell!" Greg said, appearing in Sherlock's flat. "I suppose it's better than shooting it." 

He looked at the wall that was now covered with papers, photographs and maps. Sherlock stood on the sofa, pinning items onto the already cluttered wall. 

"Put them on the table," Sherlock ordered without looking at him. 

"Tea?" Greg asked, looking around. Someone had done some shopping, sitting on the kitchen table, still in carrier bags. Greg put the files down and shrugged his coat off, draping it over the back of the armchair before heading into the kitchen to unpack the groceries. Looking at the contents Greg decided that one of the pack had been sent shopping, and he wondered if he could manage to talk Sherlock into eating a ham sandwich. 

"I'm on secondment, by the way," he informed Sherlock. 

"That's quick, even for Mycroft." 

"He was probably arranging it last night."

Greg said nothing, it came as no surprise to him when his bosses had spoken to him. He had spent the previous night at Sherlock's flat after their run through the city and had woken to find himself curled up in Sherlock's bed, with frantic sounds happening beyond the bedroom. 

Mrs Hudson, after furiously screaming the previous night, was furiously cleaning. By mid-morning he and Sherlock were sneezing. At least before the frenetic clean she had provided them with breakfast. Then they had sat in Sherlock's lounge. Or rather Greg sat and Sherlock paced around updating Greg on Mycroft's suspicions. Then he had picked up the violin and starting playing, oblivious to Greg's presence. 

"Don't you have to go?" Sherlock had asked suddenly spinning round to glare at him, as if he had completely forgotten that Greg was there. 

"It's my day off, although get the feeling I am about to have a sudden secondment," Greg mused. 

He had been off the radar with the pack over the last few months. After they had returned to the car, after stalking whatever prey Sherlock had his sights on, he had opened the boot to find his own clothes replaced and next to it a suit, shirt and coat that was clearly Sherlock's. As he looked at it his elation drifted down slightly. Without Sherlock the pack drifted away from him, there was no reason to challenge him, or for him to knock anyone down, or any of the many things that seemed to entail being tangled up in Sherlock's life. 

But there had been a surge of elation as he looked down at the neatly laid out clothes. Someone had been in his car, invading his privacy, because Mycroft ordered it and because Sherlock needed it. And he was again involved in something that although he resented being dragged into, he also, in the darker parts of his mind, relished in. 

Greg had sneezed again. Sherlock eyed him with amusement. Mrs Hudson appeared out of the bathroom, pink marigold gloves on her hands, one holding a spray bottle, the other a cloth. 

"That's the bathroom, but don't get used to it, I'm not your housekeeper. Cup of tea?"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Greg said, sneezing at the end, while Sherlock went to the window to stare out, looking down at the street. 

"I'm sure he'll turn up at some point. Mary will more than likely encourage him rather than dissuade him."

Sherlock sniffed and stepped away from the window.

"I'm sure." 

"She's hardly the jealous type, and John won't be able to resist." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glowered. Greg looked at him innocently. 

"I'm sure you have a job to go to," Sherlock snapped at him. Greg rolled his eyes. 

"Fine, what do you want me to look into."

"What's makes you think there is anything?"

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Because you're desperate to send me to Scotland Yard, and the only reason you would do that is because you want information. Although I doubt there has been a missing persons report for a train." 

"Still, it is curious," Sherlock said. 

"You could call it that. What information do you want?" Greg said, hauling himself out of the armchair off to do Sherlock's bidding, because that was his entire purpose in life, according to the alpha and omega in his life. And then he had returned for the same reason. 

He now put the milk in the fridge, hoping that it would be fine after having been abandoned, slightly warm, on the kitchen table. He stuck the rest of the food away in the places that he presumed they ought to live in Sherlock's kitchen. Then turned and went back to Sherlock who stood on the coffee table glaring at the wall. 

"And what do we make of it all?" Greg asked settling in a chair. 

"We're watching the rats."

"Deserting a sinking ship?"

"Not quite but..." Sherlock turned to him, paused, turned to the window, and then his head went back to the door, waiting silently. Greg heard the feet on the stairs and raised his eyebrows as Mary came into the room. She looked at Sherlock, and then turned her head as she realised Greg was there. He watched her nostrils flare, scenting the recent change on them. Then she turned to Sherlock again, and he frowned as she started speaking, and Sherlock's interest turned to her phone. Greg got up, realising they needed to move. 

"I've got the car, I can put the siren on." 

"Too slow," Sherlock said pulling off his shirt and unfastening his trousers. 

"Mary can come with me," Greg said. 

"You set off now, we'll follow." 

Mary gave a yelp of shock as Sherlock hand slammed against her back. Greg watched as the fur surged out of Sherlock's skin. It was enough to get Greg moving, turning away so he wasn't staring while the two wolves changed. Something that no werewolf ever wanted. Sherlock, however, let John's safety take priory. 

Greg went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, he heard the sounds of people hitting the floor, and the snapping of bones. It took no time at all for Sherlock to flow through the change, dragging Mary along with him. Most of her clothes had been ripped in the change, but she was still tangled in some of the threads. Without hesitation Greg slashed the remainder of the clothes tangled around her limbs. Sherlock has freed himself easily, and as soon as Mary was loose he dashed to the door, Mary yapped, running close behind him. Greg tossed the knife onto the mantelpiece and ran out after the two wolves. As he ran down the steps to the pavement he turned to see the pair, one dark, one light, running down the street, darting into an alleyway. Sherlock knew London well enough to navigate his way. Greg jumped into the car and flicked the lights and siren on, screeching away from the kerb to take the longer route. He had to get there in good time; if nothing else, dealing with the aftermath of two wolves bursting onto whatever scene had been set up. And John no doubt changing if he was in danger. 

Sherlock's mind picked up John's scent outside Baker Street, but he couldn't follow it, it started and ended there. He knew where he needed to go. Like all the wolves he knew his environment, and he knew London well. He dashed through the streets, moving in the darkness, and staying as close to the shadows as he could. Mary remained in his wake, staying close by him, responding to his every move. She was used to following John when they went out together. Following Sherlock was far more challenging, he moved with fluidity, darting around corners, leaving her scrabbling to catch up. Mary made sure she stayed with him, Sherlock would clearly leave her behind if she started to lag. 

He ran down a flight of steps, Mary skittered behind him, her claws scraping on the stone, and she stumbled as she reached the bottom. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, but he hardly slowed and Mary scrabbled to get upright and stay with him. 

In the car Greg screeched through a red light, taking the corner at speed. He had to take a longer route, his only advantage the blue lights and siren. Weaving through the traffic, it crossed his mind that he ought to inform Mycroft. 

"Fuck's sake!" he snapped as he narrowly missed a car that clearly didn't believe it needed to move out of the way of a police car. Greg noted the car's number plate, but he didn't really have time to worry about that, nor stopping to use his phone. 

Mycroft would have to wait. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Sherlock didn't hesitate as he bounded up towards the fire. He could hear the sounds of the wolf trapped inside. He skidded to a halt, hesitating a moment as the heat and smell hit him. Pacing one way and then the other he assessed the easiest way in. Behind him Mary did the same, also turning to snarl at someone advancing on them. Sherlock distracted everyone as he spotted the section he needed, darting forward he stuck his muzzle and then a paw into a gap, pushing to try and dislodge the plank of wood. He yelped loudly as it slid towards him, hitting him on the back. Skittering sideways he darted out from the wood, feeling the pain of the burn and smelling the singed fur. Mary followed up, knocking another section of wood away to expose the inside of the bonfire. 

It was hardly ideal, but Sherlock had no intention of turning back and allowing anyone to identify him, it would put the pack at too much risk. And Mary would be unlikely be able to, the adrenaline pumping through her system would easily prevent it. Sherlock huffed loudly as he caught sight of John trapped inside. His body had reacted in the same way, as he felt threatened. The wolf struggled up, wobbling slightly, but instinct drove the reaction, as he sensed the gap and the two familiar wolves. John snarled and snapped, but was unable to resist as Sherlock darted forward and grabbed John's scruff in his jaws, dragging him out. John kicked his legs to free himself from the remains of his clothes. Mary pushed at him, nipping at him to keep him moving, and between them the two omegas herded the alpha out. 

"Keep back," Greg's voice announced from the far side of the area. Just beyond Sherlock could see the lights of the car. It wasn't hard to keep the group of people back, several people were moving their children clear of the area, unsure of what was going on, clearly in shock about the situation. Greg moved to flank the trio of wolves, looking down to check they were all in reasonable condition. They appeared to be, Sherlock and Mary both licking at John's fur to check him and rouse him. Groggily the alpha struggled to his feet shakily, his back end dropping as he tried to take a step. 

Greg pulled out his phone, he needed more help than he had. As he flipped it open it obligingly rang. 

"There is backup on the way. Get them in your car and to safety." 

The moment Mycroft finished talking he hung up. It was all Greg needed to move. He closed the phone and glanced back at the wolves. John was again attempting to get onto his feet, Sherlock and Mary both encouraging him. The alpha took a couple of steps. 

"I left the car door open," Greg told Sherlock. The dark wolf glanced around, the blue lights were still flashing, making it easier to see. He glanced at Greg and gave a curt nod, before nudging John again, giving a low pitched huff in the hint that they had to move. 

Sherlock led the way, Mary bringing up the rear. Greg waited until the light coloured wolf had almost reached the car before he stepped back. Also noting further blue lights streaming towards them from the other direction he started to retreat. As he reached the car he was running, the wolves were in the back. Greg slammed the door, and jumped into the driver's seat and with the light still flashing and siren wailing. 

"For God's sake Sherlock!" Greg yelped as he scrabbled for the handbrake and instead got a handful of Sherlock's fur as he tried to wriggle from the backseat onto the front. Sherlock hopped onto the seat, and Greg released the handbrake. 

"Get in the footwell," Greg ordered him. Sherlock grumbled. 

"Don't argue with me," Greg added irritably. Sherlock wriggled forward and slid down into the footwell, curling around and resting his muzzle on the seat. He looked at the two wolves in the back. John sprawled loosely on the seat, with Mary tucked against him. She licked at his fur, and around his ears, which caused John to grumble and move his head about.

Greg focused on driving, as he turned a corner he flipped off the blue lights. He didn't need them now. Sherlock bobbed up occasionally from the footwell, eyes intent on the road behind. Taking a corner Greg took the long route back to Baker Street.


End file.
